of  cove 


•-.^p 

•&W&. 


:       :  '      ?•  ~^  "^U^hx/,>  ' 


*  f/r  ^M  •* 

- --  ••  &»1'/w 

Sri&  'i^ri  (  ^ 
r  ff?':f. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE 


FLOWERS    GATHERED    FROM    THE    POETS 


MAY    BYRON 


HODDER.AND    STOUGHTON 

NEW   YORK 

GEORGE    H.   DORAN    COMPANY 


PREFATORY    NOTE 

HPHE  following  poems  are  arranged  in  a  certain 
sequence,  so  that  as  far  as  possible,  they  may 
assimilate  themselves  to  the  order  of  Nature  in  a 
garden  throughout  the  year.  They  have  been 
selected  to  this  end,  and  are,  through  the  exigen- 
cies of  the  subject,  mainly  examples  of  that  "lyrical 
cry"  by  which  personal  human  emotion  is  ex- 
pressed in  rhythm  and  rhyme. 

Though  many  of  them  are  long  familiar  to  the 
lover  of  English  literature,  and  none  appear  for  the 
first  time,  I  believe  this  to  be  the  most  representative 
collection  of  love-poems  that  has  hitherto  been 
compiled. 

The  reader  can  hardly  fail  to  notice  with  surprise 
the  extraordinary  variety  of  style,  thought,  and 
treatment  which  is  to  be  met  with,  in  dealing  with 
the  single  subject  of  Love  in  its  different  phases. 
And  this,  although  several  aspects  of  Love  have 
purposely  or  of  necessity  been  omitted, 
v 


2034638 


For  kind  permission  to  make  use  here  of  many 
copyright  poems,  I  have  to  acknowledge  the  courtesy 
of  The  Spectator,  The  Outlook,  The  Pall  Mall  Gazette, 
and  The  Evening  Standard.  Thanks  are  due  to 
Messrs.  Smith  Elder  for  their  permission  to  include 
Robert  Browning's  poem  "  Greenwood  Love  "  from 
Ferishtah's  Fancies  ;  to  the  Houghton  Mifflin  Company 
for  the  same  courtesy  with  regard  to  "Toujours 
Amour"  (E.  C.  Stedman),  "Bedouin  Love  Song" 
(Bayard  Taylor),  "She  Came  and  Went"  (J.  R. 
Lowell),  and  "  A  Song  of  Content "  Q.  J.  Platt) ;  to 
Messrs.  Little,  Brown  &  Co.,  for  the  use  of  "At 
Last "  (Helen  Hunt  Jackson).  Also  to  Mrs.  Katharine 
Tynan- Hinkson,  Miss  A.  E.  Gillington,  Mr.  Maurice 
Clare,  and  other  authors,  for  allowing  me  to  include 
various  poems  of  theirs. 

In  two  or  three  cases  I  have  found  it  impossible 
to  trace  the  authorship  of  certain  lines,  and,  there- 
fore, to  the  unknown  writers  I  must  hereby  offer 
apologies  and  thanks. 

M.  B. 


CONTENTS 

SPRING 

PAGE 

I.  DAWN  IN  THE  GARDEN 19 

(First  Thoughts  of  Love) 
II.  SPRING  BUDS 31 

(The  Wooing) 

III.  THE  FLOWER  OF  ALL  FLOWERS  .  .45 

(Portrait  of  the  Beloved) 

IV.  SHADY  WALKS  AND  YEW  HEDGES        .        .    65 

(Melancholy  and  Wistful  Love] 
V.  A  GUEST  AT  THE  GATE         .        .        .        .81 

(Love  Himself  in  Various  Disguises) 
VI.  THE  CHILDREN'S  BORDER     .        .        .        .93 
(Love  of  Mother  and  Child) 

SUMMER 

VII.  MAY-TIME  IN  THE  GARDEN   .       .        .        .109 

(The  Sweetness  of  Love) 
VIII.  OLD-FASHIONED  BLOSSOMS    .        .        .        .121 

(Old-world  Love-songs) 
IX.  A  GREEN  PLEASANCE 133 

(Love  of  Friends) 
X.  NIGHT  AND  THE  NIGHTINGALE     .        .        .145 

(Serenades) 
XI.  BUTTERFLIES 157 

(Lighter  Love  Lyrics) 


AUTUMN 

PAGE 

XII.  THE  BOWER  ...  •  177 

(The  Ardent  Lover) 

XIII.  SONG  BIRDS  AND  LATE  ROSES      .  193 

(Little  Lyrics  of  Happy  Lori ) 

XIV.  ROSEMARY  FOR  REMEMBRANCE      .        .        .209 

(Love  in  Absence) 

XV.  RUE  AND  THYME  AND  OTHER  BITTER  HERBS  221 
(Love  Reproachful  and  Cynical] 

XVI.  POPPIES. 239 

(Dreams) 

XVII.  RAIN  AND  WIND 251 

(The  Doubts  and  Despairs  of  Love) 

XVIII.  RIPENED  FRUITS 265 

(The  Happy  Husband) 


WINTER 

XIX.  A  BONFIRE  .        .       .        .       .        .275 

(Love's  Renunciation) 
XX.  FADED  LEAVES  AND  WITHERED  FLOWERS.  289 

(Ashes  of  Love) 
XXI.  A  BENCH  IN  A  SUNNY  COKNER  .       .        .301 

(Wedded  Lovers  Growing  Old  Together) 

XXII.  TWILIGHT  AND  AUTUMN  VIOLETS        .       .  311 

(Farewells) 

XXIII.  EVERGREENS 329 

(Love  Strong  as  Death) 

XXIV.  LAVENDER 345 

(Sweet  Memories) 


INDEX 

PART   I.— SPRING 

PAGE 

I.  Love-thoughts        .        .  Lord  Hoitghton        .  23 

II.  The  New  Life        .         .  Dante  Aligliieri       .  24 

III.  My  Day.         .         .         .  Lord  Tennyson         .  25 

IV.  Endymion      .         .         .  H.  W.  Longfellow  .  26 
V.  If  this  be  Love       .         .  George  Lyttlcton      .  27 

VI.  Madrigal  .  .  .  Marston  Moore  .  28 

VII.  First  Love  .  .  .  Samuel  Daniel  .  29 

VIII.  Starting  from  Paumanok  Walt  Whitman  .  29 

IX.  Hidden  Love  .  .  John  Donne  .  .  30 

X.  The  Primrose  .  .  Thomas  Carcw  .  33 

XI.  The  Messenger  .  .  Lord  Tennyson  .  33 

XII.  Love  Looks  for  Love  .  Robert  Herrick  .  35 

XIII.  One  Word  is  too  Often 

Profaned     .         .         .  P.  B.  Shelley    .        .  35 

XIV.  A  Cavalier's  Wooing     .   The  Marquis   of 

Mont  rose     .        .  36 

XV.  Because          .         .         .  Edward  Fitzgerald .  37 

XVI.  Untimely  Love       .         .  Author  Unknown    .  39 

XVII.  Love      .         .         .         .S.T.Coleridge          .  40 

XVIII.  The"Jenesaisquoi"  .   William  Whitehead  47 

XIX.  The  Perfection  of  Her  .  Dante  Aligliieri       .  48 

XX.  A  Nut-Brown  Maid        .  Mnsica  Transalpina  48 

XXI.  She  was  a  Phantom  of 

Delight        .         .         .  Wm.  Wordsworth    .  49 

XXII.  My  Sweet  Sweeting      .  Sir  J.  Hawkins      .  50 
ix 


XXIII    She  Walks  in  Beauty  Lord  Byron    .  .  5* 

XXIV.  Her  Face .        .        .  Philip  Rossetter  .  52 

XXV.  Who  is  the  Maid  ?    .  Thomas  Moore  .  53 

XXVI.  The  Only  She  .        .  John  Dowland  .  54 

XXVII.  Her  Right  Name      .  Matthew  Prior  55 
XXVIII.  Description  of  such  a 
One   as    he   could 

Love      .        .        .  Sir  Thomas  Wyatl  .  56 

XXIX.  Annie  Laurie    .        .  Lady  John  Scott  .  57 
XXX.  So  White,  so  Soft,  so 

Sweet  is  She  .        .  Ben  Jonson     .  .  58 

XXXI.  Whom  I  Love  .        .  William  Browne  .  59 

XXXII.  A  Steadfast  Mind      .  Thomas  Carcw  .  60 

XXXIII.  Praise  of  my  Lady    .  William  Morris  .  61 

XXXIV.  The  Lover  beseecheth 

his  Mistress   .        .  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  .  67 

XXXV.  Inclusions .        .        .  E.  B.  Browning  .  68 

XXXVI.  Tenebrae  .         .        .  Thomas  Campion  .  69 

XXXVII.  From  the  Arabic       .  P.  B.  Shelley  .  .  70 

XXXVIII.  To  Electra        .        .  Robert  Herrick  .  70 

XXXIX.  Auld  Robin  Gray      .  Lady  Anne  Barnard  71 

XL.  Love  Untold      .        .  Joanna  Baillic  .  73 

XLI.  At  Last      .        .        .  Helen  Hunt  Jackson  74 

XLII.  Sorrow      .        .        .  Richard  Crashaw  .  76 

XLIII.  Come,    Rest  in    this 

Bosom   .        .        .  Thomas  Moore  .  77 

XL1V.  Foreknowledge        .  John  Donne    .  .  77 

XLV.  Too  Late  .        .        .  Matthew  Arnold  .  78 

XLVI.  A  Dying  Fall    .        .  Thomas  Campion  .  79 

XLVII.  The  Banks  o'  Doon  .  Robert  Burns .  .  79 

XLVI  1 1.  True  and  False  Love  William  Blake  .  So 

XLIX.  The  Ungentle  Guest  Robert  Herrick  .  83 

L.  The  Wayfarer  .        .  Dante  Alighicri  .  84 

LI.  What     the     Mighty 

Love  has  Done     .  John  Fletcher  .  85 
x 


PAGE 

LI  I.  Upon  Cupid       .         .  Robert  Herrick  .  86 

LIII.  Hush,  Hush  !    .        .  Thomas  Moore  .  87 
LIV.  Love  will  Find  out  Seventeenth  Century 

the  Way         .        .      Poem   .  .87 
LV.  The  Mariner      .         .  William  Byrd  .  89 
LVI.  Love,  like  a  Gypsy   .  Robert  Herrick  .  90 
LVII.  Love's  Treachery      .  Robert  Greene  .  go 
LVI  1 1.  Love  the  Conqueror  .  May  Byron      .  .  91 
LIX.  The  Shower  of  Blos- 
soms     .        .        .  Robert  Herrick  .  92 
LX.  At  Bay       .        .        .  May  Byron      .  .  95 
LXI.  A  Cradle  Song  .         .  William  Blake  .  97 
LXII.  The  Goal  .        .        .  Maurice  Clare  .  98 
LXIII.  The  Mother's  Lullaby  Author  Unknown  .  99 
LXIV.  Mothering  Sunday    .  M.  C.  Gillington  .  99 
LXV.  A  Slumber  Song        .  William  Blake  .  101 
LXVI.  The  Wood  Song        .  May  Byron      .  .  102 
LXVII.  Parental       Recollec- 
tions      .        .         .  Mary  Lamb     .  .  103 
LXVI II.  Two  Against  Fate     .  May  Byron       .  .  104 
LXIX.  Cawn  Bavvn Dheelish  Maurice  Clare  .  107 


PART   II.— SUMMER 

LXX.  In  May       .        .        .  Alice  E.  Gillington  .  113 

LXXI.  Three  Kisses      .        .  E.  B.  Browning  .115 

LXXI  I.  Love  Me  if  I  Love     .  Barry  Cornwall  .  115 

LXX1II.  Greenwood  Love      .  Robert  Browning  .  116 

LXXI  V.  The  Posie .        .        .  Robert  Burns  .  .117 

LXXV.  Garden  Fancies        .  Robert  Browning  .  119 
LXX VI.  Since    First    I    Saw 

Your  Face     .           Thomas  Ford .  ,  123 
LXX VI I.  Phillida's  Love-call  to 

her  Corydon  .        .  Ignoto      .        .  .   124 
xi 


PAGE 

LXXVIII.  An  Odd  Conceit         .  Nicholas  Breton  .  126 
LXXIX.  The   Bailiff's   Daugh- 
ter of  Islington       .  Old  Ballad  .        .  127 
LXXX.  The    Singing    Shep- 
herd       .        .        .  John  Wootton     .   129 
LXXXI.  Madrigal     .        .        .  John  Wilbyc       .  130 
LXXXII.  A  Dialogue;  between 

Him  and  His  Heart  W.  Davidson  .  130 
LXXXIII.  The  Praise  of  Love  .  Tobias  Hume  .  132 
LXXXIV.  The  Friendship- 

Flower .        .        .  Lord  Honghton    .  135 
LXXXV.  The  Meeting  of   the 

Waters  .        .        .  Thomas  Moore      .  136 
LXXXVI.  The  Best  of  Friends  .  Author  Unknou'ii.  137 
LXXXVII.  I  Saw  in  Louisiana    .   Walt  Whitman    .  137 
LXXXVIII.  To  a  Friend       .        .  Kalhcrinc  Philips  138 
LXXXI X.  A  Temple  to  Friend- 
ship       .        .        .  Thomas  Moore     .  139 
XC.  Friendship         .        .  R.  W.  Emerson    .  140 
XCI.  Farewell!— but  when- 
ever you  Welcome 

the  Hour       .         .  Thomas  Moore     .  141 
XCI  I .  Of  the  Terrible  Doubt 

of  Appearances      .  Walt  Whitman   .  142 
XCIII.  The  Night  Piece        .  Robert  Herrick     .  147 
XCIV.  Cleveland's  Serenade  Sir  Walter  Scott  .  148 
XCV.  Now  Sleeps  the  Crim- 
son Petal        .         .  Lord  Tennyson-    .  149 
XCVI.  While  She  lies  Sleep- 
ing        .         .        .  John  Dowland    .  149 
XCVII.  Bedouin  Love  Song  .  Bayard  Taylor     .  150 
XCVIII.  Spanish  Serenade      .  H.  W.  Longfellow  151 
XCIX.  An  Elizabethan  Sere- 
nade      .        .        .  Sir  Philip  Sidney    152 
C.  Were  I  a  Drop  of  Dew  Maurice  Clare    .   154 
xii 


PAGE 

CI. 

Indian  Serenade 

P.  B.  Shelley   . 

154 

CII. 

The  Clown's  Song    . 

Wm.  Shakespeare  . 

159 

CHI. 

Song  by  a  Person  of 

Quality  . 

Lord  Peterborough  . 

160 

CIV. 

Phillis    is    My    only 

Joy          ... 

Sir  Charles  Sedley  . 

161 

cv. 

Love-Thoughts  . 

Lord  Houghton 

162 

CVI. 

The  Promise     . 

William  Byrd 

163 

CVII. 

Last    May    a    Braw 

Wooer   

Robert  Burns  . 

163 

CVIII. 

The  Dissembler 

Matthew  Prior 

165 

CIX. 

When  Love  is  Kind. 

Thomas  Moore 

166 

ex. 

A  Hymn  to  Love 

Robert  Herrick 

167 

CXI. 

Sympathy 

Reginald  Hcber 

167 

CXI  I. 

The  Stolen  Heart      . 

Sir  John  Suckling  . 

169 

CXIII. 

Dear  Fanny 

Thomas  Moore 

170 

CXIV. 

The  Deceiver    . 

W.  S.  Landor 

170 

cxv. 

Phillida  Flouts  Me    . 

Seventeenth  Century 

Poem    . 

171 

CXVI. 

Tarn  Glen 

Robert  Burns  . 

172 

CXVII. 

The  Despairing  Lover  William  Walsh 

173 

CXVIII. 

Thought  from  Catul- 

lus     . 

Robert  Lloyd  . 

175 

CXIX. 

Cean  Dubh  Dheelish 

Sir  Samuel  Ferguson 

179 

cxx. 

ToCelia   . 

Ben  Jonson     . 

1  80 

CXXI. 

There's  a  Woman  like 

a  Dew-drop   . 

Robert  Browning    . 

180 

CXXII. 

Faith's  Avowal 

John  Dowland 

181 

CXXIII. 

Love's  Philosophy    . 

P.  B.  Shelley  . 

182 

CXXIV. 

To  Anthea 

Robert  Herrick 

183 

cxxv. 

Maid  of  Athens 

Lord  Byron     . 

184 

CXXVI. 

Come,  O  Come  ! 

Thomas  Campion    . 

185 

CXXVII. 

Love  Inveterate 

J.  Sylvester    . 

185 

CXX  VIII. 

O  Wert  Thou  in  the 

Cauld  Blast    . 

Robert  Burns 

186 

xiii 

CXXIX.  A    Man's  Require 

ments   .        .        .  E.  B.  Browning  .  187 

CXXX.  How  Many  Times  ?  T.  L.  Beddoes .  .  188 

CXXXI.  Life  in  a  Love        .  Robert  Browning  .  189 

CXXXII.  Ask  Me  no  More     .  Lord  Tennyson  .  100 

CXXXIII.  A  Red,  Red  Rose   .  Robert  Burns  .  .  191 

PART   III.— AUTUMN 

CXXXIV.  A  Birthday     .        .  Christina  Rossetti  .  197 

CXXXV.  The  Time  of  Roses  Thomas  Hood  .  198 

CXXXVI.  The  Tryst       .         .  Jean  Ingelow .  .  198 

CXXX VI I.  Love's  Bird    .         .  Katharine  Tynan  .  200 

CXXXVIII.  Finland  Love  Song  Thomas  Moore  .  201 

CXXXIX.  Were  I  a  Cloudlet .  May  Byron      .  .  202 

CXL.  Only  We        .        .  LordHoughton  .  202 

CXLI.  To     Althea,    from 

Prison  .        .        .  Richard  Lovelace  .  203 

CXLII.  The  Monopolist      .  Thomas  Moore  .  204 

CXLIII.  This  Heart  o'  Mine  Maurice  Clare  .  204 

CXLIV.  The  Summit   .        .  P.  B.  Shelley    .  .  205 

CXLV.  She  is  Mine    .        .  Thomas  Campion  .  206 

CXLVI.  I'd  Mourn  the  Hopes  Thomas  Moore  .  206 

CXLVII.  The  Stewardship    .  M.  C.  Gillington  .  207 

CXLVIII.  Alter  Ego        .        .  Author  Unknown  .211 

CXLIX.  The  Lonely  Road  .  W.  S.  Landor .  .212 

CL.  In  Three  Days        .  Robert  Browning  .  212 

CLI.  You  and  the  Spring  Wm.  Shakespeare  .  214 

CLII.  Wandering  Willie .  Robert  Burns  .  .  214 

CLIII.  Memory.        .        .  William  Browne  .  215 

CLIV.  The  Anxious  Lover  Sir  Philip  Sidney  .  216 

CLV.  Love  in  Absence    .  Katherine  Tynan  .  217 

CLVI.  Absence.        .        .  Richard  Jago  .218 

CLVI I.  Separation      .        .  W.  S.  Landor.  .218 

CLVIII.  If     .        .        .        .  S.  T.  Coleridge  .  218 

xiv 


PAGE 

CLIX.  Remembrance         .  Wm.  Shakespeare  .  219 

CLX.  The  Pilgrimage      .  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  223 

CLXI.  The  Triumph          .  Thomas  Campion  .  225 

CLXII.  The  Mournful  Moon  Sir  Philip  Sidney  .  22$ 

CLXIII.  Change      upon 

Change         .        .  E.  B.  Browning  .  226 
CLXIV.  Kind    are     Her 

Answers       .         .  Thomas  Campion  .  227 
CLXV.  Perjury  Excused    .  Wm.  Shakespeare  .  228 
CLXVI.  The  Eternal  Femi- 
nine     .        .        .  Tobias  Smollett  .  228 
CLXVI  I.  A  Dirge  .        .         .  Sir  Philip  Sidney  .  229 
CLXVI  1 1.  Where     did      you 
Borrow  that  Last 

Sigh?  .        .        .  Sir  Wm. Berkeley  .  231 

CLXIX.  Love  Disposed  of   .  T.  L.  Beddoes  .  .231 

CLXX.  To  Cloe  .        .        .  Thomas  Moore  .  233 

CLXXI.  I  was  in  Love         .  Robert  Jones  .  .  233 

CLXXII.  What  Care  I  ?         .  George  Wither  .  235 

CLXXIII.  When  I  Loved  You  Thomas  Moore  .  236 

CLXXIV.  The  Prediction        .  Thomas  Campion  .  237 

CLXXV.  Longing.        .         .  Matthew  Arnold  .241 

CLXXVI.  The  House  of  Love  Marston  Moore  .  242 

CLXXVII.  The  Traveller's 

Dreams         .        .  P.  B.  Shelley   .  .  243 

CLXXVIII.  The  Turret      .        .  May  Byron      .  .  243 

CLXXI  X.  Dream-Love  .        .  Christina  Rossetti  .  244 

CLXXX.  The  One  Dream     .  W.  S.  Landor.  .  247 

CLXXXI.  Reincarnation         .  Maurice  Clare  .  247 

CLXXXII.  In  a  Dream     .        .  M.  C.  Gillington  .  249 

CLXXXIII.  Echo                .        .  Christina  Rossetti  .  249 

CLXXXIV.  The     Lover    Com- 

plaineth        .        .  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt  .  253 
CLXXXV.  When  the  Lamp  is 

Shattered      .        .  P.  B.  Shelley    .  .  255 
xv 


PAGE 

CLXXXVI.  Lewti   .        .        .  S.  T.  Coleridge  .  256 

CLXXXVII.  Edward  Gray       .  Lord  Tennyson  .  259 
CLXXXVI  1 1.  Two  in  the  Cam- 

pagna .       .        .  Robert  Browning  .  261 
CLXXXIX.  Sometimes     with 

One  I  Love     .  Walt  Whitman  .  264 

CXC.  The  Anniversary .  'John  Donne    .  .  267 
CXCI.  The  Happy  Hus- 

band .        .        .  S.  T.  Coleridge  .  268 

CXCI  I.  The  Exchange     .  Sir  Philip  Sidney  .  269 

CXCIII.  Love  and  Nature.  Lord  Houghton  .  269 

CXCIV.  You      .        .        .  Robert  Browning  .  270 
CXCV.  A  Song  of  Content  John  James  Piatt .  271 
CXCVI.  To  His  Wife,  with 

a  Ring       .        .  Samuel  Bishop  .  271 

CXCVII.  Home  .        .        .  Dora  Grcenwcll  .  273 


PART   IV.— WINTER 

CXCVI  1 1.  Give  all  to  Love  .  R.  W.  Emerson 
CXCIX.  The  King's  Cup- 
bearer .  May  Byron 
CC.  The    Last     Ride 

Together  .        .  Robert  Browning    .  282 
CCI.  The      Ever-fixed 

Mark.        .        .  Win.  Shakespeare    .  286 
CCII.  One  Way  of  Love  Robert  Browning    .  287 
CCIII.  Separation   .        .  Matthew  Arnold     .  291 
CCIV.  When    we    Two 

Parted       .        .  Lord  Byron    .        .291 
CCV.  In  a  Year     .        .  Robert  Browning    .  293 
CCVI.  When     Passion's 
Trance  is  Over- 
past .        .        .  P.  B.  Shelley    .  296 
xvi 


CCVII.  In  a  Drear-Nighted 

December    .        .  John  Keats     .  .  297 
CCVII  I.  The     Time      Will 

Come    .        .        .  May  Byron     .  .  298 

CCIX.  A  Parting        .         .  Michael  Drayton  .  298 

CCX.  A  Dead  March        .  M.  C.  Gillington  .  299 

CCXI.  Love's  House  .        .  Katharine  Tynan  .  303 

CCXI I.  Wrinkles         .        .  W.  S.  Landor .  .303 

CCXI  1 1.  The  Refuge     .        .  Maurice  Clare  .304 

CCXIV.  Autumnal  Beauty   .  John  Donne    .  .  305 

CCXV.  John  Anderson,  My 

Jo         ...  Robert  Burns  .  .  306 

CCXVI.  To  Biancha     .         .  Robert  Herrick  .  307 

CCXVII.  Unchanging  Love  .  Thomas  Moore  .  307 

CCXVI  1 1.  Immortal  Youth      .  Win.  Shakespeare  .  308 

CCXIX.  Toujours  Amour     .  E.  C.  Stcdman  .  308 

CCXX.  The  Measurement  .  E.  B.  Browning  .  310 

CCXXI.  Remain,  ah  !  not  in 

Youth  Alone        .  IF.  S.  Landor .  .  310 
CCXXI  I.  Then     Fare     Thee 

well      .         .         .  Thomas  Moore  .  313 

CCXXI  1 1.  Exit         .        .        .  Wm.  Shakespeare  .  314 

CCXXIV.  The  Lost  Mistress  .  Robert  Browning  .  31^ 

CCXXV.  Highland  Mary       .  Robert  Burns  .  '  .  316 

CCXXVI.  Love's  Secret  .        .  William  Blake  .  317 

CCXXVI I.  Four  Years     .        .D.M.Mulock.  318 
CCXXVI  1 1.  The  Sailing  of  the 

Sword.        .        .  William  Morris  .  319 

CCXXIX.  A  Valediction          .  E.  B.  Browning  .  321 

CCXXX.  We  Two  Together  Walt  Whitman  .  322 

CCXXXI.  Farewell  to  Nancy  .  Robert  Burns  .  .  326 

CCXXX1I.  Farewell  !   If  Ever 

Fondest  Prayer  .  Lord  Byron     .  .  327 
CCXXXI  1 1.  The  Blessed  Damo- 

/-el        .        .         .  D.  G.  Rossctti  .  .331 
xvii 


CCXXXIV.  At  the  Mid  Hour 

of  Night    .        .  Thomas  Moore  .  337 

CCXXXV.  Evelyn  Hope        .  Robert  Browning  .  337 

CCXXXVI.  A  Spirit  Present  .  D.  M.  Muloch  .  .  340 

CCXXXVII.  Remembrance      .  Emily  Bronte  .  .  341 

CCXXXVIII.  The  Cross  Roads  .  May  Byron      .  -343 

CCXXXIX.  The    Memory    of 

Love          .        .  Lord  Houghton  .  347 
CCXL.  You  Remain         .  Author  Unknown  .  347 
CCXLI.  Sighs  and  Memo- 
ries    .        .        .  Dante  Alighieri  .  348 
CCXLII.  Parted  and  Met    .  Lord  Houghton  .  349 
CCXLIII.  Love's    Young 

Dream       .        .  Thomas  Moore  .  349 

CCXLI V.  My  Kate        .        .  E.  B.  Browning  .  350 

CCXLV.  One  Day       .        .  Christina  Rossetti  .  352 

CCXLVI.  Rose  Aylmer        .  W.  S.  Landor .  .353 

CCXLVII.  She     Came     and 

Went         .        .  J.  R.  Lowell    .  .  354 

CCXLVIII.  My  Letters  .        .  E.  B.  Browning  .  355 

CCXLIX.  Golden  Guendolen  William  Morris  .  355 

CCL.  Durisdeer     .        .  Lady  John  Scott  .  356 

CCLI.  Once  More  .        .  Lord  Tennyson  .  357 

CCLII.  The    Mother's 

Visits         .        .  D.  M .  Mnlock  .  .  358 
CCL1II.  Memory        .        .  Christina  Rossetti  .  359 
CCLIV.  The  Vista      .        .  Author  Unknown  .  360 
CCLV.  Echoes    and  Me- 
mories      .        .  P.  B.  Shelley   .  .  360 


xviii 


i. 

Dawn  in  the  Garden 

First  Thoughts  of  Love 


I 

HE  was  not  yet  in  love,  but  very  near  ...  for 
he  thanked   God  that   He   had    made    such 
beautiful  beings  to  walk  this  earth.  .  .  .  O,  there  is 
nothing  holier   in  this  life   of  ours,  than   the  first 
consciousness  of  love  —  the   first  fluttering  of    its 
silken  wings — the  first  sound   and   breath   of   that 
wind  which  is  so  soon  to  sweep  through  the  soul  ! 
H.  W.  Longfellow,  "  Hyperion." 


I.     Love-thoughts          Jt      Jt      jt      Jt, 

A   LL  fair  things  have  soft  approaches, 
^**     Quiet  steps  are  still  the  sure ; 
It  were  hard  to  point  aright 
At  what  instant  morning  light, 
Shy  and  solemn-paced,  encroaches 
On  the  desolate  obscure  ; — 
Who  can  read  the  growth  of  flowers 
Syllable  by  syllable  ? 
Who  has  sight  or  ear  to  tell, 
Or  by  moments  or  by  hours, 
At  what  rate  the  sappy  tree 
Full-  of  life,  and  life  in  spring, 
Every  sleekest  limb  embosses 
With  the  buds  its  vigour  glosses, — 
At  what  rate  the  buds  with  glee 
Burst,  and  show  the  tender  wing 
Of  the  leaf  that  hardly  dares 
Trust  to  inexperienced  airs? 
Who  can  measure  out  the  pace 
Of  the  smiles  on  Nature's  face? 
23 


Thou  loveliest  of  the  thoughts  of  God, 

Creation's  antitype  and  end  ! 

Thou  treadest  so  the  vernal  sod 

That  slimmest  grasses  hardly  bend;-- 

I  feel  thy  presence  sensible 

On  my  ideal  supervene, 

Yet  just  the  moment  cannot  tell 

That  lies  those  two  bright  states  between : — 

No  memory  has  an  arm  to  reach 

The  morning-twilight  of  our  thought, — 

The  infant's  use  of  sight  and  speech 

Is  all  unchallenged  and  unsought  ; 

And  yet  thou  askest,  winning  one, 

That  I  should  now  unriddler  be, 

To  tell  thee  when  I  first  begun 

To  love  and  honour  Thee ! 

Lord  Houghfon. 

II.     The  New  Life       j,      jt      jt      ^      jt 

T    FELT  a  spirit  of  love  begin  to  stir 

Within  my  heart,  long  time  unfelt  till  then ; 

And  saw  Love  coming  towards  me  fair  and  fain, 
(That  I  scarce  knew  him  for  his  joyful  cheer), 
Saying,  "Be  now  indeed  my  worshipper  !" 

And  in  his  speech  he  laughed  and  laughed  again. 

Then,  while  it  was  his  pleasure  to  remain, 
I  chanced  to  look  the  way  he  had  drawn  near, 
And  saw  the  Ladies  Joan  and  Beatrice 

Approach  me,  this  the  other  following, 
24 


One  and  a  second  marvel  instantly. 
And  even  as  now  my  memory  speaketh  this, 
Love  spake  it  then  :  "  The  first  is  christened  Spring ; 
The  second  Love,  she  is  so  like  to  me." 

Dante  Alighieri,  trans.  D.  G.  Rossetii. 

III.     My  Day      Jt,      jk      jt      jk      jt      j 

OLET  the  solid  ground 
Not  fail  beneath  my  feet 
Before  my  life  has  found 

What  some  have  found  so  sweet ; 
Then  let  come  what  come  may, 
What  matter  if  I  go  mad, 
I  shall  have  had  my  day. 

Let  the  sweet  heavens  endure, 
Nor  close  and  darken  above  me, 

Before  I  am  quite  sure 
That  there  is  one  to  love  me  ; 

Then  let  come  what  come  may 

To  a  life  that  has  been  so  sad, 

I  shall  have  had  my  day. 

Lord  Tennyson. 


The  Garden  of  Love.  25 


IV.     Endymion     jt 


T 


HE  rising  moon  has  hid  the  stars; 
Her  level  rays,  like  golden  bars, 
Lie  on  the  landscape  green, 
With  shadows  brown  between. 


And  silver  white  the  river  gleams, 
As  if  Diana,  in  her  dreams, 

Had  dropt  her  silver  bow 

Upon  the  meadows  low. 

On  such  a  tranquil  night  as  this 

She  woke  Endymion  with  a  kiss, 

When,  sleeping  in  the  grove, 

He  dreamed  not  of  her  love. 

Like  Dian's  kiss,  unasked,  unsought, 
Love  gives  itself,  but  is  not  bought  ; 
Nor  voice,  nor  sound  betrays 
Its  deep,  impassioned  gaze. 

It  comes — the  beautiful,  the  free, 
The  crown  of  all  humanity — 

In  silence  and  alone 

To  seek  the  elected  one. 

It  lifts  the  boughs,  whose  shadows  deep 
Are  Life's  oblivion,  the  soul's  sleep, 
And  kisses  the  closed  eyes 
Of  him  who  slumbering  lies. 
26 


O  weary  hearts  !     O  slumbering  eyes  ! 
O  drooping  souls,  whose  destinies 

Are  fraught  with  fear  and  pain, 

Ye  shall  be  loved  again  ! 

No  one  is  so  accursed  by  fate, 
No  one  so  utterly  desolate, 

But  some  heart,  though  unknown, 

Responds  unto  his  own  : 

Responds — as  if,  with  unseen  wings, 
An  angel  touched  its  quivering  strings  ; 
And  whispers,  in  its  song, 
"Where  hast  thou  stayed  so  long?" 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


V.     If  this  be  Love?     Jk      Jt    Jk      Jt, 

\  \  7 HEN   Delia  on  the  plain  appears 
^  *       Aw'd  by  a  thousand  tender  fears, 
I  would  approach,  but  dare  not  move : 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love  ? 

Whene'er  she  speaks,  my  ravish'd  ear 
No  other  voice  but  hers  can  hear, 
No  other  wit  but  hers  approve  : 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love  ? 

If  she  some  other  youth  commend, 
Though  I  was  once  his  fondest  friend, 


His  instant  enemy  I  prove  : 

Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love  ? 

When  she  is  absent,  I  no  more 
Delight  in  all  that  pleas'd  before, 
The  clearest  spring,  or  shadiest  grove: 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love  ? 

When,  fond  of  power,  of  beauty  vain, 
Her  nets  she  spread  for  every  swain, 
I  strove  to  hate,  but  vainly  strove : 
Tell  me,  my  heart,  if  this  be  love  ? 

George  Lyttleton. 

VI.     Madrigal       jt      Jt,      Jt,      jt      Jt,      Ji 

r  I  ""HE  rooks  are  seeking  in  wood  and  waste 
•*•      The  rafter-stuff  for  their  robber  castles; 
The  hazel  boughs  in  a  fever  of  haste 
Hang  out  their  tassels. 

The  clouds  go  by  like  a  fleece  of  wool; 

The  rills,  at  end  of  their  frozen  waiting 
Scamper  and  chuckle  :  the  air  is  full 

Of  courting  and  mating. 

But  my  heart,  like  a  little  lost  child  astray, 

It  cries  and  bewails,  with  no  one  to  mind  it  : 
Sweeter  than  spring !     When  you  come  this  way, 
Could  you  but  find  it  ! 

Marsion  Moore, 
28 


VII.     First  Love          Jt,      &      J,      jt      & 

A   H  !  I  remember  well  (and  how  can  I 

But  evermore  remember  well  ?)  when  first 
Our  flame  began,  when  scarce  we  knew  what  was 
The  flame  we  felt ;  when  as  we  sat  and  sighed 
And  looked  upon  each  other,  and  conceived 
Not  what  we  ail'd — yet  something  we  did  ail ; 
And  yet  were  well,  and  yet  we  were  not  well, 
And  what  was  our  disease  we  could  not  tell. 
Then    would    we   kiss,  then    sigh,  then   look ;  and 

thus 

In  that  first  garden  of  our  simpleness 
We  spent  our  childhood.     But  when  years  began 
To  reap  the  fruit  of  knowledge,  ah,  how  then 
Would    she    with    graver   looks,   with   sweet   stern 

brow 

Check  my  presumption  and  my  forwardness  ? 
Yet   still   would    give  me    flowers,  still   would   me 

show 

What  she  would  have  me,  yet  not  have  me  know. 

Samuel  Daniel. 


VIII.     Starting  from  Paumanok          jt 

AT  7 HAT  do  you  seek  so  pensive  and  silent? 

*  •       What  do  you  need  camerado  ? 
Dear  son,  do  you  think  it  is  love  ? 
29 


Listen,  dear  son — listen,  America,  daughter  or  son, 
It  is  a  painful  thing  to  love    a    man  or  woman  to 

excess,  and  yet  it  satisfies,  it  is  great, 
But  there   is   something  else  very  great,  it   makes 

the  whole  coincide, 
It,  magnificent,  beyond   materials,  with  continuous 

hands  sweeps  and  provides  for  all. 

Wali  Whitman. 

IX.     Hidden  Love       jt      jk      j,      ^      jt 

T  F,  as  I  have,  you  also  do 
•*•     Virtue  in  woman  see, 
And  dare  love  that,  and  say  so  too, 
And  forget  the  He  and  She — 

And  if  this  love,  though  placed  so, 

From  profane  men  you  hide, 
Which  will  no  faith  on  this  bestow 

Or,  if  they  do,  deride- 
Then  you  have  done  a  braver  thing 

Than  all  the  worthies  did ; 
And  a  braver  thence  will  spring, 

Which  is,  to  keep  that  hid. 

John  Donne. 


II.     Spring  Buds 

The  Wooing 


II 

*~p  HAT  stage  of  courtship,  which  makes  the  most 
•^  exquisite  moment  of  youth,  the  fresh est  blossom- 
time  of  passion — when  each  is  sure  of  the  other's 
love,  but  no  formal  declaration  has  been  made,  and 
all  is  mutual  divination,  exalting  the  most  trivial 
word,  the  lightest  gesture,  with  thrills  delicate  as 
wafted  jasmine  scent. 

George  Eliot,  "  The  Mill  on  the  Floss." 


X.     The  Primrose        Jk      Jk      Jt      .$. 

A  SK  me  why  I  send  you  here 
**•     This  firstling  of  the  infant  year  ; 
Ask  me  why  I  send  to  you 
This  primrose  all  bepearl'd  with  dew; 
I  straight  will  whisper  in  your  ears, 
The  sweets  of  love  are  wash'd  with  tears  ; — 
Ask  me  why  this  flower  doth  show 
So  yellow,  green,  and  sickly  too  ; 
Ask  me  why  the  stalk  is  weak, 
And  bending,  yet  it  doth  not  break  ; 
I  must  tell  you,  these  discover 
What  doubts  and  fears  are  in  a  lover. 

Thomas  Carew. 


XL     The  Messenger    £,£>£,& 

O  SWALLOW,  Swallow,  flying,  flying  South, 
Fly  to  her,  and  fall  upon  her  gilded  eaves, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  what  I  tell  to  thee. 
33 


O  tell  her,  Swallow,  thou  that  knowest  each, 
That  bright  and  fierce  and  fickle  is  the  South, 
And  dark  and  true  and  tender  is  the  North. 

O    Swallow,    Swallow,    if    I   could    follow,    and 

light 

Upon  her  lattice,  I  would  pipe  and  trill, 
And  cheep  and  twitter  twenty  million  loves. 

O  were  I  thou  that  she  might  take  me  in, 
And  lay  me  on  her  bosom,  and  her  heart 
Would  rock  the  snowy  cradle  till  I  died. 

Why   lingereth    she    to    clothe    her    heart    with 

love, 

Delaying  as  the  tender  ash  delays 
To  clothe  herself,  when  all  the  woods  are  green  ? 

O  tell  her,  Swallow,  that  thy  brood  is  flown ; 
Say  to  her,  I  do  but  wanton  in  the  South, 
But  in  the  North  long  since  my  nest  is  made. 

O  tell  her,  brief  is  life  but  love  is  long, 
And  brief  the  sun  of  summer  in  the  North, 
And  brief  the  moon  of  beauty  in  the  South. 

O  Swallow,  flying  from  the  golden  woods, 
Fly  to  her,  and  pipe  and  woo  her,  and  make  her 

mine, 
And  tell  her,  tell  her,  that  I  follow  thee. 

Lord  Tennyson. 
34 


XII.  To  Electra         j*      &      &      j* 

Love  looks  for  Love. 

T     OVE,  love  begets  ;   then  never  be 
•*— '     Unsoft  to  him  who's  smooth  to  thee  : 
Tygers  and  beares,  I've  heard  some  say, 
For  profer'd  love,  will  love  repay  ; 
None  are  so  harsh,  but  if  they  find 
Softnesse  in  others,  will  be  kind  : 
Affection  will  affection  move, 
Then  you  must  like,  because  I  love. 

'  .         Robert  Herrick. 

XIII.  To jt      jt      jt      &      & 

/^vNE  word  is  too  often  profaned 
^•^     For  me  to  profane  it, 
One  feeling  too  falsely  disdained 

For  thee  to  disdain  it ; 
One  hope  is  too  like  despair 

For  prudence  to  smother  ; 
And  pity  from  thee  more  dear 

Than  that  from  another. 

I  can  give  not  what  men  call  love, 

But  wilt  thou  accept  not 
The  worship  the  heart  lifts  above, 

And  the  Heavens  reject  not, — 
The  desire  of  the  moth  for  the  star, 
35 


Of  the  night  for  the  morrow. 
The  devotion  to  something  afar 
From  the  sphere  of  our  sorrow? 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 


XIV.     A  Cavalier's  Wooing         ^t 

TV  /TY  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 
•LV1     This  noble  world  of  thee 
Be  governed  by  no  other  sway 

But  purest  monarchy ; 
But  if  confusion  have  a  part, 

Which  virtuous  souls  abhor, 
And  hold  a  synod  in  thy  heart, 

I'll  never  love  thee  more. 

As  Alexander  I  will  reign, 

And  I  will  reign  alone  ; 
My  thoughts  shall  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne. 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  puts  it  not  unto  the  touch, 

To  win  or  lose  it  all. 

But  if  thou  wilt  be  constant  then 
And  faithful  of  thy  word, 

I'll  make  thee  glorious  by  my  pen, 
And  famous  by  my  sword  ; 
36 


I'll  serve  thee  in  such  noble  ways, 

Was  never  heard  before  ; 
I'll  deck  and  crown  thee  all  with  bays, 

And  love  thee  evermore. 

The  Marquis  of  Montrose. 

XV.     Because       &      J>      &      jt      Jt 

SWEET  NEA  !— for  your  lovely  sake 
I  weave  these  rambling  numbers, 
Because  I've  lain  an  hour  awake, 

And  can't  compose  my  slumbers ; 
Because  your  beauty's  gentle  light 

Is  round  my  pillow  beaming, 
And  flings,  I  know  not  why,  to-night, 
Some  witchery  round  my  dreaming. 

Because  we've  passed  some  joyous  days, 

And  danced  some  merry  dances; 
Because  we  love  old  Beaumont's  plays, 

And  old  Froissart's  romances  ! 
Because  whene'er  I  hear  your  words, 

Some  pleasant  feeling  lingers  ; 
Because  I  think  your  heart  has  chords 

That  vibrate  to  your  fingers  ! 

Because  you've  got  those  long,  soft  curls 
I've  sworn  should  deck  my  goddess; 

Because  you're  not,  like  other  girls, 
All  bustle,  blush,  and  bodice  ! 

37 


Because  your  eyes  are  deep  and  blue, 

Your  fingers  long  and  rosy ; 
Because  a  little  child  and  you 

Would  make  one's  home  so  cosy 

Because  your  little  tiny  nose 

Turns  up  so  pert  and  funny ; 
Because  I  know  you  choose  your  beaux 

More  for  their  mirth  than  money  ; 
Because  I  think  you'd  rather  twirl 

A  waltz,  with  me  to  guide  you, 
Than  talk  small  nonsense  with  an  earl, 

And  a  coronet  beside  you ! 

Because  you  don't  object  to  walk, 

And  are  not  given  to  fainting ; 
Because  you  have  not  learnt  to  talk 

Of  flowers  and  Poonah-painting  ; 
Because  I  think  you'd  scarce  refuse 

To  sew  one  on  a  button  ; 
Because  I  know  you'd  sometimes  choose 

To  dine  on  simple  mutton  ! 

Because  I  think  I'm  just  so  weak 

As,  some  of  those  fine  morrows, 
To  ask  you  if  you'll  let  me  speak, 

My  story — and  my  sorrows  ; 
Because  the  rest's  a  simple  thing, 

A  matter  quickly  over, 
A  church — a  priest — a  sigh — a  ring — 

And  a  chaise  and  four  to  Dover. 

Edward  Fitzgerald. 
38 


XVI.     Untimely  Love    •      jfc      Jt      jt 

I"    AST  Sunday  at  St.  James's  prayers, 

'     The  prince  and  princess  by, 
I,  drest  in  all  my  whale-bone  airs, 

Sat  in  a  closet  nigh. 
I  bow'd  my  knees,  I  held  my  book, 

Read  all  the  answers  o'er ; 
But  was  perverted  by  a  look, 

Which  pierced  me  from  the  door. 
High  thoughts  of  Heaven  I  came  to  use, 

With  the  devoutest  care  ; 
Which  gay  young  Strephon  made  me  lose, 

And  all  the  raptures  there. 
He  stood  to  hand  me  to  my  chair, 

And  bow'd  with  courtly  grace  ; 
But  whisper'd  love  into  my  ear, 

Too  warm  for  that  grave  place. 
"  Love,  love,"  said  he,  "  by  all  adored. 

My  tender  heart  has  won." 
But  I  grew  peevish  at  the  word, 

And  bade  he  would  be  gone. 
He  went  quite  out  of  sight,  while  I 

A  kinder  answer  meant ; 
Nor  did  I  for  my  sins  that  day 

By  half  so  much  repent. 

Author  Unknown, 


39 


XVII.     Love        &      &      &      *      J* 

ALL  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay, 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene, 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  leaned  against  the  armed  man  ; 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight  ; 
She  stood  and  listened  to  my  lay 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

Few  sorrows  hath  she  of  her  own, 
My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve ! 
She  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 
40 


She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand  ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  :   and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes,  and  modest  grace  ; 
And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face  i 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  the  bold  and  lovely  Knight, 
And  that  he  crossed  the  mountain-woods, 
Nor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den, 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade, 
And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade, — 


There  came  and  looked  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 
And  that  he  knew  it  was  a  Fiend, 
This  miserable  Knight  ! 

And  that  unknowing  what  he  did, 
He  leaped  amid  a  murderous  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 
The  Lady  of  the  Land— 

And  how  she  wept  and  clasped  his  knee 
And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  ever  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain — 

And  that  she  nursed  him  in  a  cave  ; 
And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest-leaves 
A  dying  man  he  lay  ! 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity  ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve  : 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 
42 


And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long ! 

She  •  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame  ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved — she  stepped  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stept — 
Then  suddenly  with  timorous  eye 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace  ; 
And  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'Twas  partly  love  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see, 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  Bride. 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 

43 


III.     The  Flower  of  all  Flowers 

Portrait  of  the  Beloved 


Ill 

"T^HUS  there  was  not  one  discordant  thing  in  her  : 

-*•    but  a  perfect  harmony  of  figure,  and  face,  and 

soul — in  a  word,  of  the  whole  being.     And  he  who 

had  a  soul  to  comprehend  hers,  must  of  necessity 

love  her,  and  love  no  other  woman  for  evermore. 

H.  W.  Longfellow,  "  Hyperion." 


XVIII.     The  "Je  ne  sais  Quoi"      Jt      £ 

A/'ES,  I'm  in  love,  I  feel  it  now, 

And  Celia  has  undone  me  ; 
And  yet  I'll  swear  I  can't  tell  how 
The  pleasing  plague  stole  on  me. 

'Tis  not  her  face  which  love  creates, 

For  there  no  graces  revel ; 
'Tis  not  her  shape,  for  there  the  Fates 

Have  rather  been  uncivil. 

'Tis  not  her  air,  for  sure  in  that 

There's  nothing  more  than  common; 

And  all  her  sense  is  only  chat 
Like  any  other  woman. 

Her  voice,  her  touch,  might  give  th'  alarm  — 

'Twas  both  perhaps,  or  neither ; 
In  short,  'twas  that  provoking  charm 
Of  Celia  altogether. 

William  Whitehead 
47 


XIX.  The  Perfection   of  Her    j»       Jk      & 

FOR  certain  he  hath  seen  all  perfectness 
Who  among  other  ladies  hath  seen  mine  : 
They  that  go  with   her  humbly  should    com- 
bine 

To  thank  their  God  for  such  peculiar  grace. 
So  perfect  is  the  beauty  of  her  face 
That  it  begets  in  no  wise  any  sign 
Of  envy,  but  draws  round  her  a  clear  line 
Of  love,  and  blessed  faith,  and  gentleness. 
Merely  the  sight  of  her  makes  all  things  bow : 
Not  she  herself  alone  is  holier 
Than  all ;    but   hers,  through  her,   are   raised 

above. 

From  all  her  acts  such  lovely  graces  flow 

That  truly  one  may  never  think  of  her 

Without  a  passion  of  exceeding  love. 

Dante  Alighieri,  trans.  D.  G.  Rossetti. 

XX.  A  Nut-Brown   Maid  jt      ^      jt 

THROWN  is  my  love,  but  graceful, 
*-*    And  each  renowned  whiteness, 
Matched  with  thy  lovely  brown,  loseth  its  bright- 
ness. 

Fair  is  my  love,  but  scornful : 
Yet  have  I  seen  despised 

Dainty  white  lilies,  and  sad  flowers  well  prized. 
Musica  Transalpina,  1597. 
48 


XXL     She  was  a  Phantom  of  Delight     jf 

0  H  E  was  a  Phantom  of  delight 

v-'     When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight 
A  lovely  Apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament ; 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair; 
Like  Twilight's  too,  her  dusky  hair  ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  Dawn  ; 
A  dancing  Shape,  an  Image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  way-lay. 

1  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 
A  Spirit,  yet  a  Woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin-liberty  ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet ; 

A  Creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food ; 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 

The  very  pulse  of  the  machine  ; 

A  Being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 

A  Traveller  between  life  and  death  ; 

The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 

Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill ; 

The  Garden  of  Love.  C 


A  perfect  Woman,  nobly  planned, 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command  ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  angelic  light. 

Wordstvoitlt. 


XXII.       My  Sweet  Sweeting     Jt,      Jt, 

A   H,  my  sweet  sweeting  ! 
**•     My  little  pretty  sweeting, 
My  sweeting  will  I  love  wherever  I  go, 
She  is  so  proper  and  so  pure, 
Full  steadfast,  stable,  and  demure, 
There  is  none  such,  you  may  be  sure, 
As  my  sweet  sweeting. 

In  all  this  world,  as  thinketh  me, 
Is  none  so  pleasant  to  my  eye, 
That  I  am  glad  so  oft  to  see 
As  my  sweet  sweeting. 

When  I  behold  my  sweeting  sweet, 
Her  face,  her  hands,  her  mignon  feet, 
They  seem  to  me  there  is  none  so  sweet 
As  my  sweet  sweeting. 

Sir  J.  Hawkins. 
50 


XXIII.     She  Walks  in  Beauty  '  Jt     & 

OHE  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
^     Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies  ; 
And  all  that's  best  of  dark  and  bright 

Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes  : 
Thus  rhellow'd  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impair'd  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress. 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face, 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek,  and  o'er  that  brow, 
So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 

The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 
But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 

A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 
A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent ! 

Lord  Byron. 


XXIV.      Her  Face      Jk      J.      jt      Jt 

AND  would  you  see  my  mistress'  face  ? 
**     It  is  a  flowery  garden  place, 
Where  knots  of  beauties  have  such  grace 
That  all  is  work  and  nowhere  space. 

It  is  a  sweet,  delicious  morn, 
Where  day  is  breeding,  never  born  ; 
It  is  a  meadow,  yet  unshorn, 
Which  thousand  flowers  do  adorn. 

It  is  the  heavens'  bright  reflex, 
Weak  eyes  to  dazzle  and  to  vex : 
It  is  th'  Idea  of  her  sex, 
Envy  of  whom  doth  world  perplex. 

It  is  a  face  of  Death  that  smilesj 
Pleasing,  though  it  kills  the  whiles  : 
Where  Death  and  Love  in  pretty  wiles, 
Each  other  mutually  beguiles. 

It  is  fair  beauty's  freshest  youth, 

It  is  the  feigned  Elisium's  truth  : 

The  spring,  that  wintered  hearts  renew'th ; 

And  this  is  that  my  soul  pursueth. 

Philip  Rossetter. 


XXV.     Who  is  the  Maid  ? 


T  T  7 HO  is  the  maid  my  spirit  seeks, 
*  *       Through  cold  reproof  and  slander's  blight  ? 
Has  she  Love's  roses  on  her  cheeks  ? 

Is  hers  an  eye  of  this  world's  light  ? 
No,  wan  and  sunk  with  midnight  prayer 

Are  the  pale  looks  of  her  I  love ; 
Or  if,  at  times,  a  light  be  there, 

Its  beam  is  kindled  from  above. 

ii. 
I  chose  not  her,  my  soul's  elect, 

From  those  who  seek  their  Maker's  shrine 
In  gems  and  garlands  proudly  deck'd, 

As  if  themselves  were  things  divine  ! 
No — Heaven  but  faintly  warms  the  breast 

That  beats  beneath  a  broider'd  veil  ; 
And  she  who  comes  in  glittering  vest 

To  mourn  her  frailty,  still  is  frail. 

in. 
Not  so  the  faded  form  I  prize 

And  love,  because  its  bloom  is  gone  ; 
The  glory  in  those  sainted  eyes 

Is  all  the  grace  her  brow  puts  on. 
And  ne'er  was  Beauty's  dawn  so  bright, 

So  touching  as  that  form's  decay, 
Which,  like  the  altar's  trembling  light, 

In  holy  lustre  wastes  away  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 

53 


XXVI.     The  Only  She       &      &      & 

"  O  AY,  Love  !  if  ever  thou  didst  find 
^     A  woman  with  a  constant  mind  ? " 

"None  but  one  !  " 

"And  what  should  that  rare  mirror  be? 
Some  goddess  or  some  Queen  is  she  ? " 
She  !  She  !  She  !  and  only  She  ! 
She,  only  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty  ! 


"  But  could  thy  fiery  poisoned  dart, 
At  no  time,  touch  her  spotless  heart, 

Nor  come  near  ? " 
"  She  is  not  subject  to  Love's  bow. 
Her  eye  commands,  her  heart  saith  '  No  ! 
No  !  no  1  no  !  and  only  No  ! 
One  No !  another  still  doth  follow. 


"  How  might  I  that  fair  wonder  know, 
That  mocks  desire  with  endless  '  No  ! '  ? " 

"  See  the  Moon, 

That  ever  in  one  change  doth  grow  ; 
Yet  still  the  same,  and  She  is  so  ! " 
So  !  so  !  so  !  and  only  so  ! 
From  heaven,  her  virtues  she  doth  borrow. 

"  To  her,  then,  yield  thy  shafts  and  bow, 
That  can  command  affections  so ! " 
54 


"  Love  is  free, 

So  are  her  thoughts  that  vanquish  thee  ! 
There  is  no  Queen  of  Love  but  She  ! " 
She  !  She  !  She  !  and  only  She  ! 
She,  only  Queen  of  Love  and  Beauty  ! 

John  Dowland. 


XXVII.     Her  Right  Name         jt      £ 

A  S  Nancy  at  her  toilet  sat, 
**     Admiring  this  and  blaming  that  ; 
"  Tell  me,"  she  said ;  "  but  tell  me  true ; 
The  nymph  who  could  your  heart  subdue, 
What  sort  of  charms  does  she  possess  ? " 
"  Absolve  me,  Fair  One :  I'll  confess 
With  pleasure,"  I  replied.     "  Her  hair, 
In  ringlets  rather  dark  than  fair, 
Does  down  her  ivory  bosom  roll, 
And,  hiding  half,  adorns  the  whole. 
In  her  high  forehead's  fair  half-round 
Love  sits  in  open  triumph  crown'd  : 
He  in  the  dimple  of  her  chin, 
In  private  state,  by  friends  is  seen. 
Her  eyes  are  neither  black,  nor  grey ; 
Nor  fierce,  nor  feeble  is  their  ray  ; 
Their  dubious  lustre  seems  to  show 
Something  that  speaks  nor  Yes,  nor  No. 
Her  lips  no  living  bard,  I  weet, 
55 


May  say,  how  red,  how  round,  how  sweet, 
Old  Homer  only  could  indite 
Their  vagrant  grace  and  soft  delight  : 
They  stand  recorded  in  his  book, 

When  Helen  smiled,  and  Hebe  spoke " 

The  gipsy,  turning  to  her  glass, 
Too  plainly  show'd  she  knew  the  face  : 
"And  which  am  I  most  like,"  she  said, 
"  Your  Chloe,  or  your  nut-brown  maid  ?  ' 
Matthew  Prior. 


XXVIII.     Description  of  such  a  One  as  he 
could  Love    «jt      £•      &      «j*      «^fc      & 

A     FACE  that  should  content  me  wondrous  well 
**       Should  not  be  fair,  but  lovely  to  behold  : 
With  gladsome  cheer,  all  grief  for  to  expel : 
With  sober  looks  so  would  I  that  it  should 
Speak  without  words,  such  words  as  none  can  tell : 
The  tress  also  should  be  of  crisped  gold. 
With  wit  and  these  might  chance  I  might  be  tied, 
And  knit  again  the  knot  that  should  not  slide. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatl. 


XXIX.     Annie  Laurie          Jt      Jt>      jfc 

]V/T  AXWELLTON  braes  are  bonnie, 
iVJ.      Where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
And  it's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 

Gi'ed  me  her  promise  true ; 
Gi'ed  me  her  promise  true, 

Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be, 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie, 
I'd  lay  me  down  and  dee. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw- drift, 

Her  neck  is  like  the  swan, 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 

That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on. 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on, 

And  dark  blue  is  her  e'e  ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I'd  lav  me  down  and  dee. 


Like  dew  on  the  gowan  lying, 

Is  the  fa'  o'  her  fairy  feet ; 
And  like  winds  in  summer  sighing, 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet. 
Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet, 

And  she's  a'  the  world  to  me  ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I'd  lay  me  down  and  dee. 

Lady  John  Scott. 
57 


XXX.     So  White,  so  Soft,  so  Sweet,  is  She 

SEE  the  chariot  at  hand  here  of  Love, 
Wherein  my  Lady  rideth  ! 
Each  that  draws  is  a  swan  or  a  dove, 
And  well  the  car  Love  guideth. 
As  she  goes,  all  hearts  do  duty 

Unto  her  beauty  ; 

And  enamoured  do  wish,  so  they  might 
But  enjoy  such  a  sight, 
That  they  still  were  to  run  by  her  side, 
Through  swords,  through  seas,  whither  she  would 
glide. 


Do  but  look  on  her  eyes,  they  do  light 

All  that  Love's  world  compriseth  ! 
Do  but  look  on  her  hair,  it  is  bright 
As  Love's  star  when  it  riseth  ! 
Do  but  mark,  her  forehead's  smoother 

Than  words  that  soothe  her  ; 
And  from  her  arched  brows  such  a  grace 

Sheds  itself  through  the  face, 
As  alone  there  triumphs  to  the  life 
All  the  gain,  all  the  good  of  the  elements'  strife. 

Have  you  seen  but  a  bright  lily  grow 

Before  rude  hands  have  touched  it  ? 

Have  you  marked  but  the  fall  of  the  snow 
Before  the  soil  hath  smutched  it  ? 
53 


Have  you  felt  the  wool  of  the  beaver, 
Or  swan's  down  ever  ? 

Or  have  smelt  o'  the  bud  of  the  brier, 

Or  the  nard  in  the  fire  ? 

Or  have  tasted  the  bag  of  the  bee  ? 

O  so  white,  O  so  soft,  O  so  sweet  is  she  ! 
Ben  Jonson. 


XXXI.     Whom  I  Love       Jk      Jt,      jt 

Q*  HALL  I  tell  you  whom  I  love  ? 
^   Hearken  then  awhile  to  me  ; 
And  if  such  a  woman  move 

As  I  now  shall  versify, 
Be  assured  'tis  she,  or  none, 
That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 

Nature  did  her  so  much  right 
As  she  scorns  the  help  of  art, 

In  as  many  virtues  dight 
As  e'er  yet  embraced  a  heart  : 

So  much  good,  so  truly  tried, 

Some  for  less  were  deified. 

Wit  she  hath,  without  desire 

To  make  known  how  much  she  hath 

And  her  anger  flames  no  higher 
Than  may  fitly  sweeten  wrath, 

Full  of  pity  as  may  be, 

Though  perhaps  not  so  to  me. 
59 


Reason  masters  every  sense : 
And  her  virtues  grace  her  birth  : 

Lovely  as  all  excellence  ; 

Modest  in  her  most  of  mirth  : 

Likelihood  enough  to  prove 

Only  worth  could  kindle  love. 

Such  she  is  :  and  if  you  know 

Such  a  one  as  I  have  sung, 
Be  she  brown,  or  fair,  or — so 

That  she  be  but  somewhile  young : 
Be  assured  'tis  she,  or  none, 
That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 

William  Browne. 

XXXII.     A   Steadfast  Mind       Jt      jk 

T  T  E  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek, 

*••*•     Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 
Or  from  star-like  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires ; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 

Gentle  thoughts  and  calm  desires, 
Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 

Kindle  never-dying  fires ; 
Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 
Lovely  cheeks,  or  lips,  or  eyes. 

Thomas  Carew. 
60 


XXXIII.     Praise  of  My  Lady   Jk      Jt 

1\  /TY  lady  seems  of  ivory 

Forehead,  straight  nose,  and  cheeks 

that  be 
Hollow'd  a  little  mournfully. 

Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

Her  forehead,  overshadow'd  much 
By  bows  of  hair,  has  a  wave  such 
As  God  was  good  to  make  for  me. 
Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

Not  greatly  long  my  lady's  hair, 
Nor  yet  with  yellow  colour  fair, 
But  thick  and  crisped  wonderfully  : 
Beata  mea  Domina  I 

Heavy  to  make  the  pale  face  sad, 
And  dark,  but  dead  as  though  it  had 
Been  forged  by  God  most  wonderfully 
— Beata  mea  Domina  ! — 

Of  some  strange  metal,  thread  by  thread, 
To  stand  out  by  my  lady's  head, 
Not  moving  much  to  tangle  me. 

Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

Beneath  her  brows  the  lids  fall  slow, 
The  lashes  a  clear  shadow  throw 
Where  I  would  wish  my  lips  to  be. 
Beata  mea  Domina  f 
61 


Her  great  eyes  standing  far  apart, 
Draw  up  some  memory  from  her  heart, 
And  gaze  out  very  mournfully  : 

Beata  mca  Domina  ! 


So  beautiful  and  kind  they  are, 
But  most  times  looking  out  afar, 
Waiting  for  something,  not  for  me. 
Beata  mea  Domina  / 

I  wonder  if  the  lashes  long 

Are  those  that  do  her  bright  eyes  wrong, 

For  always  half  tears  seem  to  be 

— Beata  mea  Domina  I — 

Lurking  below  the  underlid, 
Darkening  the  place  where  they  lie  hid — 
If  they  should  rise  and  flow  for  me  ! 
Beata  mea  Domina  f 

Her  full  lips  being  made  to  kiss, 
Curl'd  up  and  pensive  each  one  is ; 
This  makes  me  faint  to  stand  and  see. 
Beata  mea  Domina/ 

Her  lips  are  not  contented  now, 
Because  the  hours  pass  so  slow 
Towards  a  sweet  time  :  (pray  for  me), 
— Beata  mea  Domina  I — 
62 


So  passionate  and  swift  to  ,move, 
To  pluck  at  any  flying  love, 
That  I  grow  faint  to  stand  and  see, 
Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

Yea  !  there  beneath  them  is  her  chin, 
So  fine  and  round,  it  were  a  sin 
To  feel  no  weaker  when  I  see 

— Beata  mea  Domina  f — 

God's  dealings  ;  for  with  so  much  care 
And  troublous,  faint  lines  wrought  in  there, 
He  finishes  her  face  for  me. 

Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

Of  her  long  neck  what  shall  I  say  ? 
What  things  about  her  body's  sway, 
Like  a  knight's  pennon  or  slim  tree 

— Beata  mea  Domina  ! — 

Set  gently  waving  in  the  wind  ; 
Or  her  long  hands  that  I  may  find 
On  some  day  sweet  to  move  o'er  me  ? 
Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

God  pity  me  though,  if  I  miss'd 
The  telling,  how  along  her  wrist 
The  veins  creep,  dying  languidly 

— Beata  mea  Domina  ! — 
63 


Inside  her  tender  palm  and  thin. 
Now  give  me  pardon,  dear,  wherein 
My  voice  is  weak  and  vexes  thee. 

Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

All  men  that  see  her  any  time, 

I  charge  you  straightly  in  this  rhyme, 

What,  and  wherever  you  may  be, 

— Beata  mea  Domina  /— 

To  kneel  before  her  ;  as  for  me, 
I  choke  and  grow  quite  faint  to  see 
My  lady  moving  graciously. 

Beata  mea  Domina  ! 

William  Morris. 


IV.     Shady  Walks  and  Yew   Hedges 

Melancholy  and  Wistful  Love 


IV 

T  N  her  salutation  alone  was  there  any  beatitude 
for  me  .  .  .  When,  for  the  first  time,  this  beati- 
tude was  denied  me,  I  became  possessed  with  such 
grief  that,  parting  myself  from  others,  I  went  into 
a  lonely  place  to  bathe  the  ground  with  most  bitter 
tears  .  .  .  and  having  said  also,  "  O  Love,  aid  thou 
thy  servant,"  I  went  suddenly  asleep  like  a  beaten 
sobbing  child. 

Dante  Aligliicri,  irons.  D.  G.  Rossetti, 
"  The  New  Life." 


\ 


XXXIV.  The  Lover  beseecheth  his  Mistress 
not  to  forget  his  Steadfast  Faith  and 
True  Intent  &  jt  J,  Jk  Jk  ji> 

T^ORGET  not  yet  the  tried  intent, 
•••        Of  such  a  truth  as  I  have  meant ; 
My  great  travail  so  gladly  spent, 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  when  first  began 
The  weary  life,  you  know  since  when 
The  suit,  the  service,  none  tell  can; 
Forget  not  yet ! 

Forget  not  yet  the  great  assays, 
The  cruel  wrong,  the  scornful  ways, 
The  painful  patience  in  delays, 
Forget  not  yet  ! 

Forget  not  !  oh  !  forget  not  this, 
How  long  ago  hath  been,  and  is 
The  mind  that  never  meant  amiss, 
Forget  not  yet ! 
6; 


Forget  not  then  thine  own  approved, 
The  which  so  long  hath  thee  so  loved, 
Whose  steadfast  faith  yet  never  moved, 
Forget  not  yet  ! 

Sir  Thomas  Wyatt. 


XXXV.     Inclusions      &      &      Jk      &      & 

(~\R,  wilt  thou  have  my  hand,  Dear,  to  lie  along 

^-^        in  thine? 

As  a  little  stone  in  a  running  stream,  it  seems  to 

lie  and  pine. 
Now  drop  the  poor  pale  hand,  Dear,  unfit  to  plight 

with  thine. 

Oh,  wilt  thou  have  my  cheek,  Dear,  drawn  closer 

to  thine  own  ? 
My  cheek  is  white,   my  cheek  is  worn,  by  many 

a  tear  run  down. 
Now  leave  a  little  space,  Dear,  lest  it  should  wet 

thine  own. 

Oh,  must  thou  have  my  soul,   Dear,  commingled 

with  thy  soul  ? — 
Red  grows  the   cheek,  and   warm  the  hand  ;   the 

part  is  in  the  whole  : 

Nor   hands  nor   cheeks  keep  separate,   when   soul 
is  joined  to  soul. 

E.  Barrett  Browning. 
68 


XXXVI.     Tenebrae     j»      oft      jfc      .*      j» 

T^OLLOW  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow, 
•*•        Though  thou  be  black  as  night, 
And  she  made  all  of  light, 
Yet  follow  thy  fair  sun,  unhappy  shadow  ! 

Follow  her  whose  light  thy  light  depriveth  ; 

Though  here  thou  livest  disgraced, 

And  she  in  heaven  is  placed, 

Yet  follow  her  whose  light  the  world  reviveth. 

Follow  those  pure   beams,  whose   beauty  burneth, 
That  so  have  scorched  thee, 
As  thou  still  black  must  be, 

Till    her    kind    beams    thy    black    to     brightness 
turneth. 

Follow  her,   while  yet  her  glory  shineth  : 

There  comes  a  luckless  night, 

That  will  dim  all  her  light; 

And  this,  the  black  unhappy  shade  divineth. 

Follow  still,  since  so  thy  fates  ordained  ; 
The  sun  must  have  his  shade, 
Till  both  at  once  do  fade ; 

The  sun  still  proved,  the  shadow  still  disdained. 
Thomas  Campion. 


69 


XXXVII.    From  the  Arabic:    an  Imitation 

TV  /TY  faint  spirit  was  sitting  in  the  light 
•!•*-••     Of  thy  looks,  my  love  ; 
It  panted  for  thee  like  the  hind  at  noon 

For  the  brooks,  my  love. 
The  barb  whose  hoofs  outspeed  the  tempest's  flight 

Bore  thee  far  from  me  ; 

My  heart,  for  my  weak  feet  were  weary  soon, 
Did  companion  thee. 

Ah  !  fleeter  far  than  fleetest  storm  or  steed, 

Or  the  death  they  bear, 
The  heart  which   tender  thought   clothes  like  a 

dove 

With  the  wings  of  care ; 
In  the  battle,  in  the  darkness,  in  the  need, 

Shall  mine  cling  to  thee, 

Nor  claim  one  smile  for  all  the  comfort,  love, 
It  may  bring  to  thee. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 


XXXVIII.     To  Electra      jfc      jfc 

T   DARE  not  ask  a  kisse, 
•*•     I  dare  not  beg  a  smile, 
Lest  having  that,  or  this, 

I  might  grow  proud  the  while. 
70 


No,  no,  the  utmost  share 

Of  my  desire  shall  be, 
Only  to  kiss  that  air 

That  lately  kissed  thee. 

R.  Herrick. 


XXXIX.     Auld  Robin  Gray       jt      jt      jt 

Tl  7 HEN  the  sheep  are  in  the  fauld,  and  the  kye 
^  *         at  hame, 

And  a'  the  warld  to  rest  are  gane, 
The  waes  o'  my  heart  fa'  in  showers  frae  my  e'e, 
While  my  gudeman  lies  sound  by  me. 

Young  Jamie   lo'ed   me  weel,  and   sought  me  for 

his  bride ; 

And  saving  a  croun  he  had  naething  else  beside  : 
To  make  the  croun  a  pund,  young  Jamie  gaed  to 

sea; 
And  the  croun  and  the  pund  were  baith  for  me. 

He  hadna  been  awa'  a  week  but  only  twa, 
When  my  father  brak  his  arm,  and  the  cow  was 

stown  awa' ; 

My  mother  she  fell  sick,  and  my  Jamie  at  the  sea — 
And  auld  Robin  Gray  came  a-courtin'  me. 


My  father  couldna  work,  and  my  mother  couldna 

spin  : 
I  toil'd  day  and  night,  but  their  bread  I  couldna 

win; 
Auld   Rob  maintain'd  them  baith,  and  wi'  tears  in 

his  e'e 
Said,  "Jeanie,  for  their  sakes,  O,  marry  me!" 

My  heart  it  said  nay ;   I  look'd  for  Jamie  back  ; 
But  the  wind  it  blew  high,  and  the  ship  it  was  a 

wrack  ; 

His  ship  it  was  a  wrack — why  dinna  Jamie  dee? 
Or  why  do  I  live  to  cry,  "  Wae's  me  ! "  ? 

My  father  urgit  sair  :   my  mother  didna  speak ; 
But  she  look'd  in  my  face  till  my  heart  was  like 

to  break ; 
They  gi'ed   him   my  hand,   but   my   heart  was  at 

the  sea ; 
Sac  auld  Robin  Gray  he  was  gudeman  to  me. 

I  hadna  been  a  wife  a  week  but  only  four, 
When  mournfu'  as  I  sat  on  the  stane  at  the  door, 
I    saw   my    Jamie's   wraith,   for    I    couldpa    think 

it  he- 
Till  he  said,  "  I'm  come  hame  to  marry  thee." 

0  sair,  sair  did  we  greet,  and  muckle  did  we  say ; 
We  took  but  ae  kiss,  and  I  bade  him  gang  away : 

1  wish  that  I  were  dead,  but  I'm  no  like  to  dee ; 
And  why  was  I  born  to  say,  "  Wae's  me  ! "  ? 

72 


I  gang  like  a  ghaist,  and  I  carena  to  spin ; 
I  daurna  think  on  Jamie,  for  that  wad  be  a  sin ; 
But  I'll  do  my  best  a  gude  wife  aye  to  be, 
For  auld  Robin  Gray  he  is  kind  unto  me. 

Lady  Anne  Barnard. 


XL.     Love  Untold       ^      jk      &      £, 

HHHEY  who  may  tell  love's  wistful  tale 
-*-        Of  half  its  cares  are  lightened  ; 
Their  bark  is  tacking  to  the  gale, 
The  severed  cloud  is  brightened. 

Love  like  the  silent  stream  is  found, 

Beneath  the  willows  lurking, 
The  deeper  that  it  hath  no  sound 

To  tell  its  ceaseless  working. 

Submit,  my  heart  ;   thy  lot  is  cast, 

I  feel  its  inward  token  ; 
I  feel  this  misery  will  not  last, 

Yet  last  till  thou  art  broken. 

Joanna  Baillie. 


The  Garden  of  Lore. 


XLI.     At  Last     jfc      jfc      jfc      jfc      ,# 

OTHE  years  I  lost  before  I  knew  you, 
Love! 
O,  the  hills  I  climbed  and  came  not  to  you, 

Love  ! 
Ah  !  who  shall  render  unto  us  to  make 

Us  glad, 

The  things  which  for  and  of  each  other's  sake 
We  might  have  had  ? 


If  you  and  I  had  sat  and  played  together, 

Love, 
Two  speechless  babes  in  the  summer  weather, 

Love, 
By  one  sweet  brook  which,  though  it  dried  up  long 

Ago, 
Still  makes  for  me  to-day  a  sweeter  song 

Than  all  I  know— 


If  hand-iii-hand  through  the  mysterious  gateway, 

Love, 
Of  womanhood,  we  had  first  looked  and  straightway, 

Love, 
Had  whispered  to  each  other  softly,  ere 

It  yet 
Was  dawn,  what  now  in  noonday  heat  and  fear 

We  both  forget — 
74 


If  all  of  this  had  given  its  completeness, 

Love, 
To  every  hour,  would  it  be  added  sweetness, 

Love  ? 
Could  I  know  sooner  whether  it  were  well 

Or  ill 
With  thee  ?  One  wish  could  I  more  sweetly  tell, 

More  swift  fulfil  ? 

Ah  !  vainly  thus  I  sit  and  dream  and  ponder, 

Love, 
Losing  the  precious  present  while  I  wonder, 

Love, 
About  the  days  in  which  you  grew  and  came 

To  be 
So  beautiful,  and  did  not  know  the  name 

Or  sight  of  me. 

But  all  lost  things  are  in  the  angels'  keeping, 

Love ; 
No  past  is  dead  for  us,  but  only  sleeping, 

Love ; 
The  years  of  Heaven  will  all  earth's  little  pain 

Make  good, 

Together  there  we  can  begin  again, 
In  babyhood. 

Helen  Hunt  Jackson. 


75 


XLII.     Sorrow     Jt      jk      Jt      J,      & 

HP  HE  dew  no  more  will  weep, 
^-      The  primrose's  pale  cheek  to  deck : 
The  dew  no  more  will  sleep, 
Nuzzled  in  the  lily's  neck : 
Much  rather  would  it  tremble  here, 
And  leave  them  both  to  be  thy  tear. 

Not  the  soft  gold  which 

Steals  from  the  amber-weeping  tree, 
Makes  Sorrow  half  so  rich, 

As  the  drops  distilled  from  thee  : 
Sorrow's  best  jewels  be  in  these 
Caskets,  of  which  Heaven  keeps  the  keys. 

When  Sorrow  would  be  seen 

In  her  bright  majesty, 
For  she  is  a  Queen  ! 

Then  she  is  dressed  by  none  but  thec  : 
Then,  and  only  then,  she  wears 
Her  richest  pearls ;—  I  mean  thy  tears. 

Not  in  the  evening's  eyes 

When  they  red  with  weeping  arc 
From  the  sun  that  dies, 

Sits  Sorrow  with  a  face  so  fair : 
Nowhere  but  here  doth  meet, 
Sweetness  so  sad,  sadness  so  sweet. 

Richard  Crashaw. 
76 


XLIII.     Come,  Rest  in  this  Bosom  Jt>      <£ 

COME,   rest    in    this    bosom,   my   own    stricken 
deer, 
Though  the  herd  have  fled  from  thee,  thy  home  is 

still  here ; 

Here  still  is  the  smile,  that  no  cloud  can  o'ercast, 
And  a  heart  and  a  hand  all  thy  own  to  the  last. 

Oh  !    what  was  love  made  for,  if  'tis  not  the  same 
Through  joy  and   through   torment,  through  glory 

and  shame  ? 

I  know  not,  I  ask  not,  if  guilt's  in  that  heart, 
I  but  know  that  I  love  thee,  whatever  thou  art. 

Thou   hast  call'd    me   thy  Angel    in    moments    of 

bliss, 

And  thy  Angel  I'll  be,  'mid  the  horrors  of  this — 
Through    the    furnace    unshrinking,   thy    steps   to 

pursue, 
And  shield   thee,   and   save  thee — or   perish   there 

too  !  Thomas  Moore. 


XLIV.     Foreknowledge       jk      jk      jk      jt 

T    ITTLE  think'st  thou,  poor  flower 

•*— '    Whom  I  have  watched  six  or  seven  days, 

And  seen  thy  birth,  and  seen  what  every  hour 

Gave  to  thy  growth,  thee  to  this  height  to  raise, 
And  now  dost  laugh  and  triumph  on  this  bough, 
77 


Little  think' st  thou 

That  it  will  freeze  anon,  and  that  I  shall 
To-morrow  find  thee  fall'n,  or  not  at  all. 

Little  think'st  thou,  poor  heart, 

That  labourest  yet  to  nestle  thee, 
And  think'st  by  hovering  here  to  get  a  part 

In  a  forbidden  or  forbidding  tree, 
And  hop'st  her  stiffness  by  long  siege  to  bow  : 

Little  think'st  thou 

That  thou,  to-morrow,  ere  the  sun  doth  wake, 
Must  with  this  sun  and  me  a  journey  take. 

John  Donne. 

XLV.     Too  Late          jt      jt      jt      jfc      .- 

T?  ACH  on  his  own  strict  line  we  move, 
•*~-     And  some  find  death  ere  they  find  love. 
So  far  apart  their  lives  are  thrown 
From  the  twin  soul  that  halves  their  own. 

And  sometimes,  by  still  harder  fate, 

The  lovers  meet,  but  meet  too  late. 

— Thy  heart  is  mine  ! — True,  true !  ah,  true ! 

Then,  love,  thy  hand  ! — Ah,  no!  adieu! 

Matthew  Arnold. 


XLVI.     A  Dying  Fall         &      jt      Jt      jt 

TT^OLLOW  your  saint,  follow  with  accents  sweet ! 
"*-        Haste  you,  sad  notes,  fall  at  her  flying  feet  ! 
There,  wrapped  in  cloud  of  sorrow,  pity  move, 
And  tell  the  ravisher  of   my  soul  I  perish  for  her 

love  : 

But  if  she  scorns  my  never-ceasing  pain, 
Then   burst  with   sighing  in   her   sight  and    ne'er 
return  again  ! 

All  that  I  sung  still  to  her  praise  did  tend ; 
Still  she  was  first ;  still  she  my  songs  did  end  : 
Yet  she  my  love  and  music  both  doth  fly, 
The  music  that  her  echo  is  and  beauty's  sympathy. 
Then  let  my  notes  pursue  her   scornful  flight ! 
It  shall  suffice    that   they  were  breathed  and  died 
for  her  delight. 

Thomas  Campion. 


XLVI  I.     The  Banks  o'  Boon     jk      j, 

\7E  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Boon, 
-^       How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair 
How  can  ye  chant  ye  little  birds, 

And  I  sae  weary  f  u'  o'  care  ! 
Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 

That  wantons  thro'  the  flowering  thorn  ; 
Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys, 
Departed — never  to  return  ! 
79 


Aft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine  ; 
And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 
Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree  ; 
And  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose, 

But  ah  !  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

Robert  Burns. 

XLVIII.     True  and  False  Love         *      j 

LOVE  seeketh  not  itself  to  please, 
Nor  for  itself  hath  any  care 
But  for  another  gives  its  ease, 
And  builds  a  heaven  in  hell's  despair. 

Love  seeketh  only  self  to  please, 
To  bind  another  to  its  delight, 

Joys  in  another's  loss  of  ease, 

And  builds  a  hell  in  heaven's  despite. 

William  Blake. 


.80 


V.     A  Guest  at  the  Gate 

Love  Himself  in  various  Disguises. 


81 


THE  Boy, 
Than  whom  no  mortal  so  magnificent ! 
This  wimpled,  whining,  purblind,  wayward  boy  ! 
This  senior-junior,  giant-dwarf,  Dan  Cupid  ; 
Regent  of  love-rhymes,  lord  of  folded  arms, 
The  anointed  sovereign  of  sighs  and  groans, 
Liege  of  all  loiterers  and  malcontents. 

William  Shakespeare,  "  Love's  Labour's  Lost." 


XLIX.     The  Cheat  of  Cupid,  or  The  Un 
gentle  Guest    &      £•      jfi      jfc      jk      j 

^XE  silent  night  of  late, 
^^     When  every  creature  rested, 
Came  one  unto  my  gate, 
And  knocking,  me  molested. 

Who's  that,  said  I,  beats  there, 
And  troubles  thus  the  sleepy  ? 

Cast  off,  said  he,  all  fear, 

And  let  not  locks  thus  keep  ye. 

For  I  a  boy  am,  who 

By  moonless  nights  have  swerved  ; 
And  all  with  show'rs  wet  through, 

And  e'en  with  cold  half  starved. 

I,  pitiful,  arose, 

And  soon  a  taper  lighted  ; 
And  did  myself  disclose 

Unto  the  lad  benighted. 
83 


I  saw  he  had  a  bow, 

And  wings  too,  which  did  shiver  ; 
And  looking  down  below, 

I  spy'd  he  had  a  quiver. 

I  to  my  chimney's  shine 

Brought  him,  as  Love  professes, 

And  chaf'd  his  hands  with  mine, 
And  dried  his  drooping  tresses. 

But  when  he  felt  him  warm'd, 

Let's  try  this  bow  of  ours, 
And  string,  if  they  be  harm'd, 

Said  he,  with  these  late  show'rs. 

Forthwith  his  bow  he  bent, 
And  wedded  string  and  arrow, 

And  struck  me,  that  it  went 

Quite  through  my  heart  and  marrow. 

Then  laughing  loud,  he  flew 

Away,  and  thus  said  flying, 
Adieu,  mine  host,  adieu, 

I'll  leave  thy  heart  a-dying. 

Robert  Herrick. 

L.     The  Wayfarer        jt      jk      jk      j, 

A     DAY  agone,  as  I  rode  sullenly 
**•     Upon  a  certain  path  that  liked  me  not, 
I  met  Love  midway  while  the  air  was  hot, 
84 


Clothed  lightly  as  a  wayfarer  might  be. 
And  for  the  cheer  he  showed,  he  seemed  to  me 
As  one  who  hath  lost  lordship  he  had  got ; 
Advancing  tow'rds  me  full  of  sorrowful  thought, 
Bowing  his  forehead  so  that  none  should  see. 
Then  as  I  went,  he  called  me  by  my  name, 
Saying  :  "  I  journey  since  the  morn  was  dim 
Thence  where  I  made   thy  heart  to   be  :   which 

now 

I  needs  must  bear  unto  another  dame." 
Wherewith  so  much  passed  into  me  of  him 
That  he  was  gone,  and  I  discerned  not  how. 
Dante  Alighieri,  trans.  D.  G.  Rossetti. 

LI.     What  the   Mighty  Love  has  done     Jt> 

T  T  EAR,  ye  ladies  that  despise, 

-*-  -*•     What  the  mighty  Love  has  done  : 

Fear  examples,  and  be  wise  : 

Fair  Calisto  was  a  nun ; 
Leda,  sailing  on  the  stream 

To  deceive  the  hopes  of  man, 
Love  accounting  but  a  dream, 

Doted  on  a  silver  swan  ; 
Danae,  in  a  brazen  tower, 
Where  no  love  was,  loved  a  shower. 

Hear,  ye  ladies  that  are  coy, 

What  the  mighty  Love  can  do  ; 
Fear  the  fierceness  of  the  boy  : 
85 


The  chaste  moon  he  makes  to  woo  ; 
Vesta,  kindling  holy  fires, 

Circled  round  about  with  spies, 
Never  dreaming  loose  desires, 
Doting  at  the  altar  dies  ; 
Ilion,  in  a  short  hour,  higher 
He  can  build,  and  once  more  fire. 

John  Fletcher. 

LI  I.     Upon  Cupid       «jfc      Jk      &      Jt-      * 

LOVE,  like  a  beggar,  came  to  me 
With  hose  and  doublet  torn, 
His  shirt  bedangling  from  his  knee, 
With  hat  and  shoes  out-worn. 

He  ask'd  an  alms ;  I  gave  him  bread, 

And  meat  too,  for  his  need ; 
Of  which,  when  he  had  fully  fed. 

He  wished  me  all  good  speed. 

A. way  he  went ;  but  as  he  turn'd, 

In  faith  I  know  not  how, 
He  toucht  me  so,  as  that  I  burn, 

And  am  tormented  now. 

Love's  silent  flames,  and  fires  obscure, 

Then  crept  into  my  heart ; 
And  though  I  saw  no  bow,  I'm  sure 
His  finger  was  the  dart. 

Robert  Herrick. 
86 


LI  1 1.     Hush,   Hush!    Jt      jt      jk      jt 

"  TTUSH,  hush!"— how  well 
•*-  -*-     That  sweet  word  sounds, 
When  Love,  the  little  sentinel, 

Walks  his  night-rounds  ; 
Then,  if  a  foot  but  dare 

One  rose-leaf  crush, 
Myriads  of  voices  in  the  air 
\Vhisper,  "  Hush,  hush  ! " 

"  Hark,  hark,  'tis  he  ! " 

The  night-elves  cry, 
And  hush  their  fairy  harmony, 

While  he  steals  by  ; 
But  if  his  silv'ry  feet 

One  dew-drop  brush, 
Voices  are  heard  in  chorus  sweet, 

Whisp'ring,  "Hush,  hush!" 

Thomas  Moore. 


LIV.     Love  will  find  out  the  Way 


the  mountains 
^-^     And  over  the  waves, 
Under  the  fountains 

And  under  the  graves; 
Under  floods  that  are  deepest, 
87 


Which  Neptune  obey ; 
Over  rocks  that  are  steepest, 
Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Where  there  is  no  place 

For  the  glow-worm  to  lie ; 
Where  there  is  no  space 

For  receipt  of  a  fly ; 
Where  the  midge  dares  not  venture, 

Lest  herself  fast  she  lay  ; 
If  Love  come,  he  will  enter 

And  soon  find  out  his  way 

You  may  esteem  him 

A  child  for  his  might ; 
Or  you  may  deem  him 

A  coward  for  his  flight ; 
But  if  she  whom  Love  doth  honour 

Be  concealed  from  the  day, 
Set  a  thousand  guards  upon  her, 

Love  will  find  out  the  way. 

Some  think  to  lose  him 

By  having  him  confin'd, 
And  some  do  suppose  him, 

Poor  thing,  to  be  blind  ; 
But  if  ne'er  so  close  you  wall  him, 

Do  the  best  that  you  may; 
Blind  Love,  if  so  ye  call  him, 

Will  find  out  his  way. 


You  may  train  the  eagle 

To  stoop  to  your  fist ; 
Or  you  may  inveigle 

The  Phoenix  of  the  East ; 
The  lioness,  you  may  move  her 

To  give  o'er  her  prey ; 
But  you'll  ne'er  stop  a  lover — 

He  will  find  out  his  way. 

Early  Seventeenth  Century  Poem. 


LV.     The   Manner       jt      jt      jt,      jt      £ 

T  T  PON  a  summer's  day  Love  went  to  swim, 
^      And  cast  himself  into  a  sea  of  tears. 
The  clouds  call'd  in  their  light,  and  heav'n  wax'd 
dim, 

And  sighs  did  raise  a  tempest,  causing  fears. 
The  naked  boy  could  not  so  wield  his  arms 

But  that  the  waves  were  masters  of  his  might, 
And  threat'n'd  him  to  work  far  greater  harms 

If  he  devised  not  to  'scape  by  flight. 

Then  for  a  boat  his  quiver  stood  in  stead 

His  bow  unbent  did  serve  him  for  a  mast, 
Whereby  to  sail,  his  cloth  of  vail  he  spread, 
His  shafts  for  oars  on  either  board  he  cast. 
From  shipwreck  safe  this  wag  got  thus  to  shore, 
And  sware  to  bathe  in  lovers'  tears  no  more. 
William  Byrd. 
89 


LVI.     Love,  like  a  Gypsy    Jt    Jt,      j* 

LOVE,  like  a  gypsy,  lately  came, 
And  did  me  much  importune 
To  see   my  hand,  that  by  the  same 
He  might  foretell  my  fortune. 

He  saw  my  palm ;  and  then,  said  he, 
I  tell  thee,  by  this  score  here, 

That  thou,  within  few  months,  shalt  be 
The  youthful  Prince  D'Amour  here. 

I  smil'd,  and  bade  him  once  more  prove, 
And  by  some  cross-line  show  it, 

That  I  could  ne'er  be  Prince  of  Love, 
Though  here  the  princely  poet 

Robert  Herrick. 


LVI  I.     Love's  Treachery     &      j.      jt      Jt, 


abroad  was  lated  in  the  night, 
^*     His  wings    were    wet  with    ranging   in    the 

rain  ; 

Harbour  he  sought,  to   me  he  took  his  flight, 
To  dry  his  plumes  :   I  heard  the  boy  complain  ; 
I  oped  the  door,  and  granted  his  desire, 
I  rose  myself,  and  made  the  wag  a  fire. 

Looking  more  narrow  by  the  fire's  flame, 

I  spied  his  quiver  hanging  by  his  back  ; 
Doubting  the  boy  might  my  misfortune  frame, 
90 


I  would  have  gone  for  fear  of  further  wrack ; 
But  what  I  drad,  did  me,  poor  wretch,  betide, 
For  forth  he  drew  an  arrow  from  his  side. 

He  pierced  the  quick,  and  I   began  to  start, 

A  pleasing  wound,  but  that  it  was  too  high  ; 

His  shaft  procured  a  sharp,  yet  sugared  smart  : 

Away  he  flew,  for  why  ?  his  wings  were  dry ; 

But  left  the  arrow  sticking  in  my  breast, 

That  sore  I  grieved  I  welcomed  such  a  guest. 

Robert  Greene. 

LVIII.     Love  the  Conqueror      jt      jt      jt 

T  T  EAR,  you  ladies  lapt  in  silk, 

•*~  •*•     Deck'd  with  all  that's  bought  for  money, 

Red  as  roses,  white  as  milk, 

Soft  as  wool  and  sweet  as  honey  ! 
Though  you  fence  yourselves  about 
With  palisades  right  stout, 
In  citadel  most  strong — 
O,  yet,  ere  long 
Sir  Love  shall  surely  find  you  out  ! 

Say,  what  help  shall  then  avail, 
When  a  rosy  splendour  scorches 

All  your  vestments,  from  the  trail 
Of  his  red  triumphal  torches  ? 

When  your  guarded  ramparts  fall, 

Your  turrets  proud  and  tall 

Crumble  to  little  ash 


Before  the  crash 

Of  his  victorious  bugle  call? 

Then  defy  you  Love  no  more, 
Sound  a  parley,  speak  him  tender, 

Call  a  truce  with  him,  before 
Ye  must  hopelessly  surrender  ! 

Hearken,  ladies,  and  be  wise, 

For  joy  ye  know  not,  lies, 

Hoarding  its  golden  gleam 

For  the  hour  supreme 

When  Love  the  Conqueror  claims  his  prize  ! 
May  Byron. 

LIX.     The  Shower  of  Blossoms         jt 

T    OVE  in  a  show'r  of  blossoms  came 

-* — '    Down,  and  half  drown'd  me  with  the  same ; 

The  blooms  that  fell  were  white  and  red ; 

But  with  such  sweets  commingled, 

As  whether  this  I  cannot  tell 

My  sight  was  pleas'd  more,  or  my  smell ; 

But  true  it  was,  as  I  roll'd  there, 

Without  a  thought  of  hurt  or  fear, 

Love  turn'd  himself  into  a  bee, 

And  with  his  javelin  wounded  me  : 

From  which  mishap  this  use  I  make, 

Where  most  sweets  are,  there  lies  a  snake: 

Kisses  and  favours  are  sweet  things  ; 

But  those  have  thorns,  and  these  have  stings. 

Robert  Herrick. 
92 


VI.     The  Children's  Border 

Love  of  Mother  and  Child 


93 


VI 

THE  joys  of  parents  are  secret,  and  so  are  their 
griefs  and  fears  :  they  cannot  utter  the  one, 
nor  they  will  not  utter  the  other.  ...  It  is  a  strange 
thing  to  note  the  excess  of  this  passion  (of  love)  and 
how  it  braves  the  nature  and  value  of  things  ...  as 
if  man,  made  for  the  contemplation  of  heaven  and 
of  all  noble  objects,  should  do  nothing  but  kneel 
before  a  little  idol. 

Francis  Bacon,  "  Essays." 


LX.     At  Bay        jt 


jt,      Jt, 


A  /FY  child  is  mine. 

*•**      Blood  of  my  blood,  flesh  of  my  flesh  is  he, 

Rocked  on  my  breast  and  nurtured  at  my  knee. 

Fed  with  sweet  thoughts  ere  ever  he  drew  breath, 

Wrested  in  battle  through  the  gates  of  death. 

With     passionate     patience     is    my    treasure 

hoarded, 
And  all  my  pain  with  priceless  joy  rewarded. 

My  child  is  mine. 

Nay,  but  a  thousand  thousand  powers  of  ill 
Dispute  him  with  me  :  lurking  wolf-like  still 
In  every  covert  of  the  ambushed  years. 
Disease  and  danger  dog  him  :  foes  and  fears 
Bestride    his    path,    with    menace     fierce    and 

stormy. 

Help  me,  O  God  !  these  are  too  mighty  for  me  1 
95 


My  child  is  mine. 

But  pomp  and  glitter  of  the  garish  world 
May  wean  him  hence ;  while,  tenderly  unfurled 
Like  a  spring  leaf,  his  delicate,  spotless  days 
Open  in  blinding  sunlight.     And  the  blaze 
Of  blue  and  blossom,  scents  and  songs  at  riot, 
May  woo  him  from  my  wardenship  of  quiet. 

My  child  is  mine. 

Yet  all  his  grey  forefathers  of  the  past 
Challenge  the  dear  possession  :  they  o'ercast 
His  soul's  clear  purity  with  dregs  and  lees 
Of  vile  unknown  ancestral  impulses  : 

And    viewless    hands,    from    shadowy   regions 

groping, 
With  dim  negation  frustrate  all  my  hoping. 

My  child  is  mine. 

By  what  black  fate,  what  ultimate  doom  accurs'd, 
Shall  be  that  radiant  certainty  revers'd  ? 
Though  hell  should  thrust  its  fiery  gulfs  between, 
Though    all     the     heaven     of     heavens     should 

intervene, 

Bound  with  a  bond  not  God  Himself  will  sever, 
The  babe  I  bore  is  mine  for  ever  and  ever — 
My  child  is  mine. 

May  Byron. 


LXI.     A  Cradle  Song         jt      jt      jt      jt 

O  LEEP,  sleep,  beauty  bright, 
^     Dreaming  in  the  joys  of  night ! 
Sleep,  sleep  ;  in  thy  sleep 
Little  sorrows  sit  and  weep. 

Sweet  babe,  in  thy  face 
Soft  desires  I  can  trace, 
Secret  joys  and  secret  smiles, 
Little  pretty  infant  wiles. 

As  thy  softest  limbs  I  feel, 
Smiles  as  of  the  morning  steal 
O'er  thy  cheek,  and  o'er  thy  breast, 
When  thy  little  heart  doth  rest. 

Oh,  the  cunning  wiles  that  creep 
In  thy  little  heart  asleep  ! 
When  thy  little  heart  doth  wake, 
Then  the  dreadful  light  doth  break. 

William  Blake. 


The  Garden  of  Love. 


LXII.     The  Goal         &      ^      jfc      jft 

S~   HE  knocked  at  the  Paradise-gate, 
She  tirled  at  the  golden  pin, 
"  Who  is  this  that  cometh  so  late, 

And  thinks  to  be  let  in  ? " 
"  Ah  !  keep  me  not  here  without, 

Open  quickly  ! "  she  cried, 
"For  there  are  those  that  need  me,  need  me, 
Waiting  just  inside." 

Weary  she  was  and  worn, 

Her  knees  and  her  shoulders  bent 
With  the  leaden  burden  of  years  forlorn, 

All  in  vanity  spent. 
But  she  leapt  like  a  yearling  doe 
Across  the  threshold  of  light- 
She  flew  to  the  arms  that  drew  her,  drew  her, 
As  a  homing  dove  takes  flight. 

One  was  clasping  her  wrist, 

And  one  was  grasping  her  gown  : 
To  one  that  cried  to  be  kissed 

Tenderly  stooped  she  down. 
As  a  bird  outspreadeth  its  wings, 

She  gathered  them  closely  in — 
"  Now  is  the  time,  O  children,  children, 

When  life  shall  at  last  begin  !" 

Maurice  Clare. 


LXIII.     The  Mother's  Lullaby  Jt      & 

MY  little  sweete  darling,  my  comfort  and  joy, 
Singe  lully  by,  lully, 

In  beauty  excelling  the  princes  of  Troye, 
Singe  lully  by,  lully. 

Now   sucke,  child,  and  sleepe,  child,   thy  mother's 

sweete  boy, 

The  gods  blesse  and  keepe  thee  from  cruel  annoy, 
Thy  father,  sweete  infant,  from  mother  is  gone, 
And  she  in  the  woodes  heere,  with  thee  left  alone. 

To  thee,  little  infant,  why  do  I  make  mone, 

Singe  lully  by,  lully, 
Sith  thou  canst  not  help  mee  to  sighe  nor  to  grone, 

Singe  lully  by,  lully, 
Sweete  bab)r,  lully  by,  sweet  baby,  lully,  lully. 

Auilior  Unknown. 


LXIV.     Mothering  Sunday          Jt,      J,      jt 
Mid-Lent  Sunday 

"  He  who  goes  a-mothering  finds  violets  in  the  lane." 

Old  Prove*  b. 

A    MIST  of  leaves,   a   maze  of   light,   about  the 
*~*-        gates  of  Spring  : 

The    sweet    winds     summon    exiles    home    from 
wintry  wandering ; 

99 


And    down    the    olden    way   they  haste,    whereof 

their  feet  are  fain, 
And  he  who  goes  a-mothering  finds  violets  in  the 

lane. 

Now  underneath  the  blue-gray  sky  the  sunny  paths 

grow  hot. 
The  blue-gray  buds  unfurl  to  bloom  in  each  familiar 

spot — 
The  white   buds   and    the    blue-gray   buds,   whose 

soft  lips  gently  part, 
In  rapture  such   as  one  may  know  who  hides  on 

Mother's  heart. 

The  blackbird  in  the  greening  elm  brings  a  new 

song  to-day, 

The  lark  uplifts  his  ecstasy  above  the  meadows  gay  ; 
The  door  stands  wide,  the  wall- flower  scent  floats 

in  across  the  sill, 
And  there  upon  the  lintel-stone  is  Mother  waiting 

still  ! 


Throw  open  wide  Thy  doors,  O  Lord,  for  souls  to 
enter  in  ! 

The  days  of  exile  overpas^,  the  home-days  shall 
begin  ; 

Dear  hands  and  lips  draw  nigh  once  more  to 
welcome  and  to  bless, 

And  all  the  lovely  olden  hours  renew  their  loveli- 
ness : 

ICO 


Blue  violets  round  the  Tree  of  Life,  blue  violets  at 

the  brim 
Of   all   the   living  water-springs  where  never  light 

grows  dim — 
Where  tears  are  dried,  and  dead  hopes  raised,  and 

lost  years  found  again, 
And    hearts    may   go    a-mothering    for    evermore, 

Amen  ! 

M.  C.  Gillington. 


LXV.     A  Slumber  Song     J      Jt      Jt      . 

O  WEET  dreams,  form  a  shade 
*-'     O'er  my  lovely  infant's  head  ! 
Sweet  dreams  of  pleasant  streams 
By  happy  silent  moony  beams. 

Sweet  sleep,  with  soft  down 
Weave  thy  brows  an  infant  crown  ! 
Sweet  sleep,  angel  mild, 
Hover  o'er  my  happy  child  ! 

Sweet  smiles,  in  the  night,. 
Hover  over  my  delight ! 
Sweet  smiles,  mother's  smiles, 
All  the  live-long  night  beguile. 

William  Blake. 


LXVI.     The  Wood  Song  &      Jt      j> 

ALWAYS  there  is  a  tiny  song 
That  trickles  down  the  trees 
Small  dropping  notes — not  loud  nor  long, 

Like  other  melodies, 
But  soft  reluctant  sounds,  half-heard, 
That  utterance  of  some  unknown  bird. 


And  I  have  hunted  in  and  out, 
And  searched,  all  times  and  tides, 

And  lurked  the  woodland  ways  about — 
That  simple  singer  hides, 

Nor  stirs  a  feather :  nought  shall  scare 

Him  from  his  secret  sojourn  there. 

And  there  is  one  in  every  wood, 
Who  sings  there  day  by  day  : 

It  almost  might  be  understood, 
The  thing  he  strives  to  say, 

As  though  some  child  were  at  one's  gate, 

Sweet,  plaintive,  half-articulate. 

Whereby  I  know,  in  leafy  tents 

Awhile  invisible, 
A  flight  of  Holy  Innocents 

On  this  green  earth  do  dwell. 
That  bird-babe  with  those  notes  divine, 
He  may  be  yours — he  may  be  mine. 
102 


Hark!   where  the  topmost  branches  rear, 

It  drips  like  April  rain, 
The  little  voice  that  nevermore 

You  thought  to  hear  again — 
Until  you  catch  the  trick  of  tone, 
And  know  the  singer  for  your  own. 

Yet  speak  not,  lest  you  break  the  charm — 

Stand  silent  in  the  dew, 
And  reach  not  out  your  empty  arm 

To  clasp  him  unto  you. 
Patience  !  .  .  .  Perhaps,  if  you  keep  still, 
He  will  come  down.     I  think  he  will. 

May  Byron. 

LXVII.     Parental  Recollections          J> 

A     CHILD'S  a  plaything  for  an  hour; 

Its  pretty  tricks  we  try 
For  that  or  for  a  longer  space ; 
Then  tire,  and  lay  it  by. 

But  I  knew  one  that  to  itself 

All  seasons  could  control ; 
That  would  have  mocked  the  sense  of  pain 

Out  of  a  grieved  soul. 

Thou  straggler  into  loving  arms, 

Young  climber-up  of  knees, 
When  I  forget  thy  thousand  ways, 
Then  life  and  all  shall  cease. 

Mary  Lamb. 
103 


LXVIII.     Two  Against  Fate     Jt      jt      jt 

("When  a  child  is  born  among  the  Thracians,  all  its  kindred 
sit  about  it  in  a  circle,  and  weep  for  the  woes  it  will  have  to 
undergo,  now  that  it  has  come  into  the  world,  making  mention 
of  every  ill  that  falls  to  the  lot  of  man." — Herodotus, 
"Terpsichore,"  4.) 

'"pHEY  all  came  round  thy  cradle,  little   brown 

head, 

Bringing  their  shrill  forebodings  of  disaster ; 
Bent  crone  and  barren  beldame,  how  they  sped, 
Each   with   the  dreariest  tale   her   tongue  could 
master  ! 

But  thou  and  I 
Cared  not  :   they  would  be  silent  by  and  by. 


The  heroes  of  thy  kindred,  little  brown  head, 
Bearing  a  burden  deep  of  lamentation, 

Wept  as  they  spoke  :   the  maidens  newly-wed, 
Trembling,  declared  thy  dark  predestination  : 

But  I  and  thou 
Lay  hushed,  close,  close  together,  even  as  now 

Ah  me  !   but  when  they  had  left  us,  little   brown 

head, 

The  Ills  that  they  had  summoned  lingered  after  ; 
On  every  side  I  heard  the  stealthy  tread, 
The  wailing  voices  and  the  mocking  laughter, — 

I  saw  them  creep 

And  lay  malignant  looks  upon  thy  sleep. 
104 


For    Care   stooped    low   above    thee,   little    brown 

head, 

And  Pain  caressed  thee  on  the  hands  and  feet, 
And  Fear's  black  shadow  filled  the  dusk  with  dread, 
And   Famine  breathed   on   thee — my  sweet,  my 
sweet ! 

And  Grief,  who  knelt 
Against  thy  side — her  very  tears  I  felt. 

And  false  Love  smiling  faintly,  little  brown  head, 
And  broken  Hope  that  turns  the  world  to  gall, 

And  Sickness,  and  Despair — I  saw  them  spread 
Their  malison  o'er  thee  that  art  my  all ; 

Impotent,  still, 
I   lay  and  listened  :   they  must  have  their  will. 

Last  of  all,  Death — not  fearful,  little  brown  head, 
But  like  a  hooded  mother,  soft  and  dim, 

Drew  near  with  rustling  garments,  and  did  shed 
Clear  drops  of  blessing  o'er  thine  every  limb — 

Death,  at  whose  sight 
Those  other  phantoms  dwindled  and  took  flight. 

Alas,  for  thee  and  me,  my  little  brown  head  ! 

Have  I  then   lured  thee   into  snares  of  sorrow  ? 
Was  it  for  this,  for  this,  the  long  days  led 
My  weary  steps  to  that  divinest  morrow, 

That  golden  hour, 

When    the    sealed    bud    broke    to    the    perfect 
flower  ? 

105 


How  may  I  foil  those  Evils,  little  brown  head, 
How  may  I  blunt  the  weapons  they  are  shaping 

To  wound  thee  sore  ?     Mine  eyes  uncomforted 
Can  see  no  crevice  for  our  joy's  escaping. 

What !   shall  we  two 
Quail  and  surrender,  then,  as  others  do  ? 

No  !  let  us  fight  and  face  them,  little  brown  head, 
Through  desperate  battle  waxing  ever  bolder, 

Selling  our  life-blood  dear.     Yea,  I  being  dead, 
Should  I  forego  the  conflict  ?    At  thy  shoulder, 

Yet  will  I  wield 
A  broken  sword  in  the  unequal  field. 

Thus  upon  Fate  we  trample,  little  brown  head  ; 

Her  promises  and  threats,  alike  unstable, 
Shall  rift  and  shift  before  us  :  in  her  stead 

Stands  Love  unconquered  and  unconquerable, 
Clad  all  in  fire, 

Opening  the  doorways  of  the  heart's  desire. 

So  to  the  end.  .  .  .  What  foe  shall  make  or   mar 
That  plenitude  of  peace,  when,  warfare  ended, 
Wild  thyme  and  clover  and  the  evening  star 
Keep  watch  above  us,  in  one  dreaming  blended  ? 

When  I  and  thou 

Lie  hushed,  close,  close  together,  even  as  now. 

May  Byron. 


1 06 


LXIX.     Cawn  Bawn  Dheelish    jt      jk      Jt, 
The  Dear  Fair  Head 

T    IKE  a   nestling  yet   callow  in   its   soft  downy 
— '        yellow, 
Like   the   bud    on    the    sallow    by    the    shallow 

moor-stream 
With  its  gold  locks  entwining,  is  "my  child's  head 

reclining, 

And   I   see   its   gold   shining  still  gleam  through 
my  dream. 

And  at  night-time  awaking,  your  pillow  forsaking, 
Your    soft    refuge    making,    dear    head,    on    my 

breast  ; 
When  the  first  ray  gives  warning  of  dew-dropping 

morning, 
Your  fair  head,  mavourneen,  still  nestles  to  rest. 

The    wind    whistles    colder — come,    hide    on    my 

shoulder, 

And  never  seem  older,  my  sweetheart,  for  me  ! 
The  blows  Fate  may  deal  us,  but  the  closer  shall 

seal  us, 

I  and  you,  Cawn    Bawn    Dheelish,  acushla    ma- 
chree ! 

Maurice  Clare. 


107 


VII. 

May-time  in  the  Garden 

The  Sweetness  of  Love 


109 


VII 

T7OR  like  as  herbs  and  trees  bring  forth  fruit 
•^  and  flourish  in  May,  in  likewise  every  lusty 
heart,  that  is  in  any  manner  a  lover,  springeth  and 
flourisheth  in  lusty  deeds.  .  .  .  And,  in  likewise, 
lovers  call  again  to  their  mind  old  gentleness  and 
old  service,  and  many  kind  deeds  that  were  forgotten 
by  negligence. 

Sir  Thomas  Malory,  " Mortc  d' Arthur." 


no 


• 


LXX.     In  May  jfc      jk      &      Jt      & 

HPHE   brook  down  the  bank  drips  into  a  mossy 

moat — 
"  Deep,   deep,   deep  ! "    sings   the    nightingale, 

"  Cool  and  deep  ! " 
And  the  rain  falls  into  the  jonquil's  golden  throat  : 

"Whilst  I  weep, 

Thousands  of  red-fringed  daisies  are  fast  asleep  ! 
Yes,  every  flower  sleeps  now,  and  none  will  wake — 
Even  you,  although  I  perish  for  your  sake!" 
Some  one  is  sobbing  the  happy  May-wood  thro', 
And  the  wood-doves  whisper  gently,  "Who,  love, 
who? 

Who?" 


And  a  slim  yellow  bird  goes  slipping  from   spray 
to  spray; 

"  Here  am  I,  darling,"  sings  he,  "  quite  close  by  ! 
All  the  day  laughing  over  my  nest  of  hay" — 

Hark  that  cry 

Of  the  nightingale  in  the  silence  ! — "  Must  I  die 
For  love,  love,  love,  while  the  crimson  hawthorn  cup 
Brims  full  of  joy,  and  the  rosy  moon  curves  up 
Its  sinking  shell,  as  the  nights  merge  into  June  ? " 
And  the  wood-doves  whisper  gently,  "  Hush,  dear  ! 

Soon! 

Soon  !" 

The  limestone  brook  runs  into  the  ferny  well, 

And  all   the   sweet  May-faces   stoop   down   to 

drink  ; 
And  a  fairy  chime  swings  out  of  its  filmy  cell, 

Chink-a-chink  ! 

The  laburnum-chains  grow  longer,  link  by  link; 
And   the  lithe  yellow  bird  dips  into  his  nest 

on  the  ground, 
"  She    is   found ! "   sings    the    nightingale,   "  O    my 

love,  she  is  found  ! " 

And  the  tall  wood-hyacinth  opens  its  bugles  blue, 
And  the  wood-doves  whisper  gently,  "  Who,  love  ? 
who  ? 

Who?" 

Alice  E.  Gillingion. 


LXXI.     Three  Kisses          jfc      jfc      j*      Jt 

THIRST  time  he  kissed  me,  he  but  only  kissed 
-*-        The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I  write ; 
And  ever  since,  it  grew  more  clean  and  white, 
Slow  to  world-greetings,  quick  with  its  "  Oh,  list," 
When  angels  speak.     A  ring  of  amethyst 
I  could  not  wear  here,  plainer  to  my  sight, 
Than  that  first  kiss.     The  second  passed  in  height 
The  first,  and  sought  the  forehead,  and  half-missed, 
Half  falling  on  the  hair.     O  beyond  meed  ! 
That  was  the  chrism   of   love,  which  love's  own 

crown, 

With  sanctifying  sweetness,  did  precede; 
The  third  upon  my  lips  was  folded  down, 
In  perfect  purple  state ;  since  when,  indeed, 
I  have  been  proud  and  said,  "  My  love,  my  own." 
E.  B.  Browning. 

LXXII.     Love  Me  if  I  Live      *      J,      Jk 

T    OVE  me  if  I  live  ! 
— '     Love  me  if  I  die  ! 
What  to  me  is  life  or  death, 
So  that  thou  art  nigh  ? 

Once  I  loved  thee  rich, 

Now  I  love  thee  poor ; 
Ah  !  what  is  there  I  could  not, 

For  thy  sake,  endure  ? 


Kiss  me  for  my  love  ! 

Pay  me  for  my  pain  ! 
Come,  and  murmur  in  my  ear 

How  thou  lov'st  again  ! 

Barry  Corn-wall. 

LXXIII.     Greenwood  Love        Jt,      jt      jt, 

"T)  OUND  us   the    wild    creatures,   overhead    the 

-T^        trees, 

Underfoot     the    moss-tracks  —  life    and    love    with 

these  ! 

I  to  wear  a  fawn-skin,  thou  to  dress  in  flowers  : 
All  the  long  lone  Summer-day,  that  greenwood  life 

of  ours ! 

Rich-pavilioned  rather, — still  the  world  without — 
Inside  —  gold-roofed      silk-walled     silence     round 

about ! 

Queen  it  thou  on  purple— I,  at  watch  and  ward 
Couched    beneath    the    columns,  gaze,  thy    slave, 

love's  guard  ! 

So,  for  us  no  world  ?     Let   throngs   press   thee    to 

me  ! 

Up  and  down  amid  men,  heart  by  heart  fare  we  ! 
Welcome  squalid  vesture,  harsh  voice,  hateful  face  ! 
God  is  soul,  souls   I    and  thou  :  with   souls  should 
souls  have  place. 

Robert  Browning. 
116 


LXXIV.     The  Posie    &      jfi      jt      Jt 

S"\  LUVE  will  venture   in 

^-^     Where  it  daurna  weel  be  seen ; 

O   luve   will   venture   in 

Where  wisdom  aince  has  been  ; 
But  I  will  down  yon  river  rove 

Among  the  wood  sae  green— 
And  a'  to  pu'  a  posie 

To  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  primrose  I  will  pu', 

The  firstling  o'  the  year, 
And  I  will  pu'  the  pink, 

The  emblem  o'  my  dear, 
For  she's  the  pink  o'  womankind, 

And  blooms  without  a  peer — 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie 

To  my  ain  dear  May. 

I'll  pu'  the  budding  rose, 

When  Phoebus  peeps  in  view 
For  it's  like  a  baumy   kiss 

O'  her  sweet  bonnie  mou' ; 
The  hyacinth  for  constancy, 

Wi'  its  unchanging  blue — 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie 

To  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  lily  it  is  pure, 
And  the  lily  it  is  fair, 
117 


And  in  her  lovely  bosom 

I'll  place  the  lily  there ; 
The  daisy's  for  simplicity, 

And  unaffected  air — 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie 

To  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  hawthorn  I  will  pu' 

With  its  locks  o'  siller  grey, 
Where,  like  an  aged  man, 

It  stands  at  break  o'  day. 
But  the  songster's  nest  within  the  bush 

I  winna  tak  away— 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie 

To  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  woodbine  I  will  pu', 

When  the  evening  star  is  near, 
And  the  diamond  drops  o'  dew 

Shall  be  her   een  sae  clear  : 
The  violet's  for  modesty, 

Which  weel  she  fa's  to  wear — 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie 

To  my  ain  dear  May. 

I'll  tie  the  posie  round 

Wi'  the  silken  band  o'  luve, 
And  I'll  place  it  in  her  breast, 

And  I'll  swear  by  a'  abuve, 
That  to  my  latest  draught  o'  life 

The  band  will  ne'er  remuve — 
And  this  will  be  a  posie 

To  my  ain  dear  May. 

Robert  Burns. 
118 


LXXV.     Garden-Fancies     £>      «^t      jt      jt 
The  Flower's  Name 

T  T  ERE'S  the  garden  she  walked  across, 

-*•     Arm  in  my  arm,  such  a  short  while  since  : 
Hark,  now  I  push  its  wicket,  the  moss 

Hinders  the  hinges  and  makes  them  wince  ! 
She  must  have  reached  this  shrub  ere  she  turned, 

As  back  with  that  murmur  the  wicket  swung ; 
For  she  laid  the  poor  snail  my  chance  foot  spurned, 

To  feed  and  forget  it  the  leaves  among. 

Down  this  side  of  the  gravel-walk 

She  went  while  her  robe's  edge  brushed  the  box  : 
And  here  she  paused  in  her  gracious  talk 

To  point  me  a  moth  on  the  milk-white  phlox. 
Roses,  ranged  in  valiant  row, 

I  will  never  think  that  she  passed  you  by  ! 
She  loves  you,  noble  roses,  I  know  ; 

But,  yonder,  see,  where  the  rock-plants  lie  ! 

This  flower  she  stopped  at,  finger  on  lip, 

Stooped  over,  in  doubt,  as  settling  its  claim  ; 
Till  she  gave  me,  with  pride  to  make  no  slip, 

Its  soft  meandering  Spanish  name  : 
What  a  name  !  was  it  love  or  praise  ? 

Speech  half -asleep  or  song  half-awake  ? 
I  must  learn  Spanish,  one  of  these  days, 

Only  for  that  slow  sweet  name's  sake. 
119 


Roses,  if  I  live  and  do  well, 

I  may  bring  her,  one  of  these  days, 
To  fix  you  fast  with  as  fine  a  spell, 

Fit  you  each  with  his  Spanish  phrase  ! 
But  do  not  detain  me  now ;  for  she  lingers 

There,  like  sunshine  over  the  ground, 
And  ever,  I  see  her  soft  white  fingers 

Searching  after  the  bud  she  found. 

Flower,  you  Spaniard,  look  that  you  grow  not, 

Stay  as  you  are  and  be  loved  for  ever  ! 
Bud,  if  I  kiss  you  'tis  that  you  blow  not : 

Mind,  the  shut  pink  mouth  opens  never  ! 
For  while  it  pouts,  her  fingers  wrestle, 

Twinkling  the  audacious  leaves  between, 
Till  round  they  turn  and  down  they  nestle — 

Is  not  the  dear  mark  still  to  be  seen  ? 

Where  I  find  her  not,  beauties  vanish  ; 

Whither  I  follow  her,  beauties  flee ; 
Is  there  no  method  to  tell  her  in  Spanish 

June's  twice  June  since  she  breathed  it  with  me  ? 
Come,  bud,  show  me  the  least  of  her  traces, 

Treasure  my  lady's  lightest  foot-fall ! 
— Ah,  you  may  flout  and  turn  up  your  faces — 

Roses,  you  are  not  so  fair  after  all  ! 

R.  Browning. 


VIII.     Old-Fashioned  Blossoms 

Old-world  Love-songs 


VIII 

Duke.  (~\  FELLOW,  come  :  the  song  we  had  last 
"        night,— 

Mark  it,  Cesario  :   it  is  old  and  plain  : 
The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  in  the  sun, 
And  the  free  maids  that  weave  their  thread 

with  bones, 

Do  use  to  chant  it :  it  is  silly  sooth, 
And  dallies  with  the  innocence  of  Love 
Like  the  old  age. 

William  Shakespeare,  "  Twelfth  Night." 


122 


LXXVI.     Since  First  I  Saw  Your  Face 

OINCE  first  I  saw  your  face,  I  resolved 
v-'     To  honour  and  renown  you. 
If  now  I  be  despised,  I  wish 

My  heart  had  never  known  you. 
What,  I  that  loved  and  you  that  liked, 

Shall  we  begin  to  wrangle  ? 
No,  no,  no,  my  heart  is  fast, 

And  cannot  disentangle. 

The  sun,  whose  beams  most  glorious  are, 

Rejoiceth  all  beholders  : 
And  your  sweet  beauty  past  compare 

Made  my  poor  heart  the  bolder. 
Where  beauty  calls,  and  wit  delights, 

And  ties  of  kindness  bind  me, 
There,  oh  there,  where'er  I  go, 

I  leave  my  heart  behind  me. 

Thomas  Ford. 

The  Garden  of  Love.  12? 


LXXVII.     Phillida's  Love-call  to  Her  Cory- 
don  and  His  Replying         &      jk      j. 

Phil.  /CORYDON,  arise  my  Corydon, 

^"       Titan  shineth  clear. 
Cor.  Who  is  it  that  calleth  Corydon, 

Who  is  it  that  I  hear? 
PJtil.  Phillida  thy  true  love  calleth  thee, 
Arise  then,  arise  then, 

Arise  and  keep  thy  flock  with  me. 
Cor.  Phillida,  my  true  love,  is  it  she  ? 
I  come  then,  I  come  then, 

I  come  and  keep  my  flock  with  thee. 

Phil.  Here  are  cherries  ripe,  my  Corydon, 

Eat  them  for  my  sake. 
Cor.  Here's  my  oaten  pipe,  my  lovely  one, 

Sport  for  thee  to  make. 
Phil.  Here  are  threads,  my  true  one,  fine  as  silk, 

To  knit  thee,  to  knit  thee, 

A  pair  of  stockings  white  as  milk. 
Cor.  Here  are  reeds,  my  true  one,  fine  and  neat, 

To  make  thee,  to  make  thee, 
A  bonnet  to  withstand  the  heat. 


Phil.  I  will  gather  flowers,  my  Corydon, 

To  set  in  thy  cap. 
Cor.  I  will  gather  pears,  my  lovely  one, 

To  put  in  thy  lap. 

I  2.| 


Phil.  I  will  buy  my  true  love  garters  gay, 
For  Sundays,  for  Sundays, 

To  wear  about  his  legs  so  tall. 
Cor.  I  will  buy  my  true  love  yellow  say, 
For  Sundays,  for  Sundays, 

To  wear  about  her  middle  small. 


Phil.  When  my  Corydon  sits  on  a  hill 

Making  melody  : 
Cor.  When  my  lovely  one  goes  to  her  wheel, 

Singing  cheerily. 
Phil.  Sure  methinks  my  true  love  doth  excel 

For  sweetness,  for  sweetness, 

Our  Pan,  that  old  Arcadian  knight. 
Cor.  And  methinks  my  true  love  bears  the  bell 

For  clearness,  for  clearness, 

Beyond  the  nymphs  that  be  so  bright. 


Phil.  Had  my  Corydon,  my  Corydon, 

Been  (alack)  her  swain  : 
Cor.  Had  my  lovely  one,  my  lovely  one, 

Been  in  Ida  plain  : 
Phil.  Cynthia  Endymion  had  refus'd, 
Preferring,  preferring, 

My  Corydon  to  play  withal. 
Cor.  The  queen  of  love  had  been  excus'd 
Bequeathing,  bequeathing, 
My  Phillida  the  golden  ball. 
125 


Phil.  Yonder  comes  my  mother,  Corydon, 

Whither  shall  I  fly? 
Cor.  Under  yonder  beech,  my  lovely  one, 

While  she  passeth  by. 

Phil.  Say  to  her  thy  true  love  was  not  here  : 
Remember,  remember, 

To-morrow  is  another  day. 
Cor.  Doubt  me  not,  my  true  love,  do  not  fear, 
Farewell  then,  farewell  then, 
Heaven  keep  our  loves  alway. 

Ignoto. 


LXXVIII.     An  Odd  Conceit     Jk      Jk 

T    OVELY  kind  and  kindly  loving, 
*— '    Such  a  mind  were  worth  the  moving 
Truly  fair  and  fairly  true, — 
Where  are  all  these  but  in  you  ? 

Wisely  kind  and  kindly  wise, 
Blessed  life,  where  such  love  lies  ! 
Wise  and  kind  and  fair  and  true, — 
Lovely  live  all  these  in  you. 

Sweetly  dear  and  dearly  sweet, 
Blessed,  where  these  blessings  meet ! 
Sweet,  fair,  wise,  kind,  blessed,  true, — 
Blessed  be  all  these  in  you ! 

Nicholas  Breton. 
126 


LXXIX.   The  Bailiff's  Daughter  of  Islington 

'""pHERE    was    a    youthe,    and    a    well  -  beloved 
youthe, 

And  he  was  a  squire's  son  ; 
He  loved  the  bayliffe's  daughter  deare 

That  lived  in  Islington. 

Yet  she  was  coye,  and  would  not  believe 

That  he  did  love  her  soe, 
Noe,  nor  at  any  time  would  she 

Any  countenance  to  him  showe. 

But  when  his  friends  did  understand 

His  fond  and  foolish  minde, 
They  sent  him  up  to  faire  London, 

An  apprentice  for  to  binde. 

And  when  he  had  been  seven  long  yeares, 

And  never  his  love  could  see, — 
"  Many  a  teare  have  I  shed  for  her  sake, 

When  she  little  thought  of  mee." 

Then  all  the  maids  of  Islington 

Went  forth  to  sport  and  playe, 
All  but  the  bayliffe's  daughter  deare ; 

She  secretly  stole  awaye. 

She  pulled  off  her  gowne  of  greene, 
And  put  on  ragged  attire, 
127 


And  to  faire  London  she  would  go, 
Her  true  love  to  enquire. 

And  as  she  went  along  the  high  road, 
The  weather  being  hot  and  drye, 

She  sat  her  downe  upon  a  green  bank, 
And  her  true  love  came  riding  bye. 

She  started  up,  with  a  colour  soe  redd, 

Catching  hold  of  his  bridle-reine  ; 
"One  penny,  one  penny,  kind  sir,"  she  sayd, 
"  Will  ease  me  of  much  paine." 

"  Before  I  give  you  one  penny,  sweet-heart, 

Praye  tell  me  where  you  were  borne." 
"At  Islington,  kind  sir,"  said  she, 
"Where  I  have  had  many  a  scorne." 

"  I  prythee,  sweet-heart,  then  tell  to  mee, 

O  tell  me,  whether  you  knowe 
The  bayliffe's  daughter  of  Islington." 

"She  is  dead,  long  agoe." 

"  If  she  be  dead,  then  take  my  horse, 

My  saddle,  and  bridle  also; 
For  I  will  into  some  farr  countrye, 

Where  noe  man  shall  me  knowe." 

"O  staye,  O  staye,  thou  goodlye  youthe, 
She  standeth  by  thy  side  ; 
128 


She  is  here  alive,  she  is  not  dead, 
And   rcadye  to  be  thy  bride." 

"O  farewell  griefe,  and  welcome  joye, 

Ten  thousand  times  therefore  ; 
For  nowe  I  have  founde  mine  owne  true  love, 

Whom  I  thought  I  should  never  see  more." 

Old  Ballad. 

LXXX.     The  Singing  Shepherd        jt 

JOLLY  shepherd,  singing  on  a  hill, 
On  a  hill  so  merrily, 
On  a  hill  so  cheerily, 
Fear  not,  shepherd,  thus  to  pipe  thy  fill, 
Till  every  vale,  till  every  plain, 
Both  sing  and  say,  Love  feels  no  pain  ! 

Jolly  shepherd,  singing  in  the  sun, 

In  the  sun  so  merrily, 

In  the  sun  so  cheerily, 

Sing  forth  thy  songs,  and  let  thy  rhymes  run 
Down  to  the  dales  from  the  hills  above, 
Both  sing  and  say,  No  life  like  love  ! 

Jolly  shepherd,  singing  in  the  shade, 

In  the  shade  so  merrily, 

In  the  shade  so  cheerily, 
Joy  in  thy  life,  life  of  shepherd's  trade, 
Joy  in  thy  love,  love  full  of  glee, 
Both  sing  and  say,  Sweet  Love  for  me  ! 
129 


Jolly  shepherd,  shepherd  here  or  there, 

Here  or  there  so  merrily, 

Here  or  there  so  cheerily, 
Or  in  thy  chat,  or  in  thy  cheer, 
In  every  jig,  in  every  lay, 
Both  sing  and  say,  Love  lasts  for  aye  ! 

John  Wootton. 

LXXXI.     Madrigal      jt      jt      jk      & 

T    OVE  not  me  for  comely  grace, 
•* — '     For  my  pleasing  eye  or  face, 
Nor  for  any  outward  part : 
No,  nor  for  a  constant  heart  ! 
For  these  may  fail  or  turn  to  ill  : 

So  thou  and  I  shall  sever. 
Keep  therefore  a  true  woman's  eye, 
And  love  me  still,  but  know  not  why  ! 
So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 

To  dote  upon  me  ever. 

John  Wilbye. 


LXXXI  I.     A  Dialogue    between    Him   and 
His  Heart     jfc      jt      ,£      jfc      jfc      jt 

A  T  her  fair  hands  how  have  I  grace  entreated, 
•**•     With  prayers  oft  repeated  ! 
Yet  still  my  love  is  thwarted  : 
Heart,  let  her  go,  for  she'll  not  be  converted — 
130 


Say,  shall  she  go  ? 
O  no,  no,  no,  no,  no  : 
She  is  most  fair,  though  she  be  marble-hearted. 

How  often  have  my  sighs  declared  mine  anguish, 

Wherein  I  daily  languish  ! 

Yet  doth  she  still  procure  it  : 

Heart,  let  her  go,  for  I  cannot  endure  it. 

Say,  shall  she  go  ? 

O  no,  no,  no,  no,  no  : 
She  gave  the  wound,  and  she  alone  must  cure  it. 

But  shall  I  still  a  true  affection  owe  her, 
Which  prayers,  sighs,  tears,  do  show  her, 
And  shall  she  still  disdain  me  ? 
Heart,  let  her  go,  if  they  no  grace  can  gain  me. 

Say,  shall  she  go  ? 

O  no,  no,  no,  no,  no  : 
She  made  me  hers,  and  hers  she  will  retain  me. 

But  if  the  love  that  hath,  and  still  doth  burn  me, 

No  love  at  length  return  me, 

Out  of  my  thoughts  I'll  set  her. 

Heart,  let  her  go  ;  oh,  heart,  I  pray  thee,  let  her. 

Say,  shall  she  go  ? 

O  no,  no,  no,  no,  no  : 

Fixed  in  the  heart,  how  can  the  heart  forget  her? 

W.  Davidson. 


LXXXIII.     The  Praise  of  Love        *      j* 

FAIN  would  I  change  that  note 
To  which  fond  love  hath  charm'd  me, 
Long,  long  to  sing  by  rote, 

Fancying  that  that  harm'd  me ; 
Yet  when  this  thought  doth  come, 
"  Love  is  the  perfect  sum 
Of  all  delight," 

I  have  no  other  choice 
Either  for  pen  or  voice 
To  sing  or  write. 

O  Love,  they  wrong  thee  much 
That  say  thy  sweet  is  bitter, 
When  thy  rich  fruit  is  such 

As  nothing  can  be  sweeter. 
Fair  house  of  joy  and  bliss 
Where  truest  pleasure  is, 
I  do  adore  thee ; 
I  know  thee  what  thou  art, 
I  serve  thee  with  my  heart, 
And  fall  before  thee. 

Tobias  Hume. 


132 


IX.     A  Green  Pleasance 

Love  of  Friends 


133 


r~pHERE  are  wonders  in  iruc  affection.  It  is  a 
*-  body  of  enigmas,  mysteries,  and  riddles ; 
wherein  two  so  become  one  as  they  both  become 
two.  I  love  my  friend  before  myself,  and  yet, 
methinks,  I  do  not  love  him  enough.  Some  few 
months  hence,  my  multiplied  affection  will  make 
me  believe  I  have  not  loved  him  at  all. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne,  "  Rcligio  Medici." 


134 


LXXXIV.     The  Friendship-Flower  Jt       & 

A  I  7 HEN  first  the  Friendship-flower  is  planted 

*  '       Within  the  garden  of  your  soul, 
Little  of  care  or  thought  is  wanted 

To  guard  its  beauty  fresh  and  whole  ; 
But  when  the  full  impassioned  age 

Has  well  revealed  the  magic  bloom, 
A  wise  and  holy  tutelage 

Alone  avoids  the  open  tomb. 

It  is  not  absence  you  should  dread, 

For  Absence  is  the  very  air 
In  which,  if  sound  at  root,  the  head 

Shall  wave  most  wonderful  and  fair  : 
With  sympathies  of  joy  and  sorrow 

Fed,  as  with  morn  and  even  dews, 
Ideal  colouring  it  may  borrow 

Richer  than  ever  earthly  hues. 

Lord  Houghton. 
135 


LXXXV.     The  Meeting  of  the  Waters        ^ 

'T^HERE  is  not  in   the   wide   world  a  valley   so 
-*•      sweet, 
As   that  vale   in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters 

meet; 

Oh  !  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart, 
Ere  the   bloom  from   that  valley   shall  fade  from 

my  heart. 


Yet    it    was    not   that   Nature    had   shed    o'er   the 

scene 

Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green ; 
'Twas  not  her  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill, 
Oh  !  no — it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 


'Twas  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  were 

near, 
Who     made     every    dear    scene    of    enchantment 

more  dear, 
And   who   felt    how   the    best   charms   of    Nature 

improve, 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we 

love. 


Sweet  vale  of  Ovoca  !    how  calm  could  I  rest 
In  thy   bosom   of   shade,  with   the   friends   I    love 
best, 

136 


Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world 

should  cease, 
And    our   hearts,  like    thy   waters,   be    mingled    in 

peace. 

Thomas  Moore. 

LXXXVI.     The  Best  of  Friends       jfc      jfc 


N 


O  truer  friend  than  woman  man  discovers, 
So    that   they   have    not   been,    nor    can    be 
lovers. 

Author  Unknown. 


LXXXVI  I.     I    saw    in    Louisiana    a    Live- 
Oak  Growing         «^      j*      &      j*      g, 

T    SAW  in  Louisiana  a  live-oak  growing, 

-*•     All  alone   stood   it  and  the  moss  hung  down 

from  the  branches, 
Without   any   companion    it    grew    there    uttering 

joyous  leaves  of  dark  green, 
And   its    look,   rude,    unbending,    lusty,   made    me 

think  of  myself, 
But   I   wonder'd   how  it  could  utter  joyous  leaves 

standing   alone   there   without   its   friend  near, 

for  I  know  I  could  not, 
And  I  broke  off  a  twig  with  a  certain   number  of 

leaves  upon   it,  and   twined   around  it  a   little 

moss, 

137 


And   brought  it  away,   and   I   have    placed    it    in 

sight  in  my  room, 
It  is  not  needed  to  remind  me  as  of  my  own  dear 

friends, 
(For  I  believe  lately  I  think  of  little  else    than   of 

them,) 
Yet  it  remains  to  me  a  curious  token,  it  makes  me 

think  of  manly  love  ; 
For  all  that,  and  though  the  live-oak  glistens  there 

in  Louisiana  solitary  in  a  wide  flat  space, 
Uttering  joyous  leaves  all  its  life  without  a  friend, 

a  lover  near, 
I  know  very  well  I  could  not. 

Walt  Whitman. 


LXXXVIII.     To  a  Friend          Jt      j, 
Before  taking  a  Journey 

I    HAVE  examined  and  do  find, 
Of  all  that  favour  me 
There's  none  I  grieve  to  leave  behind 

But  only,  only  thee. 
To  part  with  thee,  I  needs  must  die, 
Could  parting  sep'rate  thee  and  I. 

Our  changed  and  mingled  souls  are  grown 

To  such  acquaintance  now, 
That  if  each  would  resume  their  own, 

Alas,  we  know  not  how. 
138 


We  have  each  other  so  engrost 
That  each  is  in  the  union  lost. 

And  thus  we  can  no  absence  know, 

Nor  shall  we  be  confined ; 
Our  active  souls  will  daily  go 

To  learn  each  other's  mind. 
Nay,  should  we  never  meet  to  sense, 
Our  souls  would  hold  intelligence. 

Thy  larger  soul  in  me  shall  lie, 

And  all   thy  thoughts  reveal ; 
Then  back  again  with   mine  shall  fly, 

And  thence  to  me  shall  steal. 
Thus  still  to  one  another  tend, 
Such  is  the  sacred  name  of  Friend. 

Katherine  Phillips. 


LXXXIX.     A  Temple  to  Friendship         jt 

"  A      TEMPLE   to    Friendship,"   said    Laura,   en- 
**         chanted, 

"I'll     build    in    this     garden,  —  the    thought    is 

divine  ! " 
Her  temple  was  built,  and   she  now   only  wanted 

An  image  of  Friendship  to  place  on  the  shrine. 
She  flew  to  a  sculptor,  who  set  down   before  her 

A  Friendship,  the  fairest  his  art  could  invent ; 
But  so  cold  and  so  dull,  that  the  youthful  adorer 

Saw  plainly  this  was  not  the  idol  she  meant. 


"  O  never,"  she  cried,  "  could  I  think  of  enshrining 
An  image  whose  looks  are  so  joyless  and  dim  : — 
But  yon  little  god,  upon  roses  reclining, 
We'll  make,  if   you   please,  sir,  a   Friendship   of 

him." 
So  the   bargain   was   struck :    with    the    little   god 

laden 

She  joyfully  flew  to  her  shrine  in  the  grove  : 
"Farewell,"  said  the  sculptor,  "you're  not  the  first 

maiden 

Who  came   but  for   Friendship,  and  took   away 
Love."  t 

Thomas  Moore. 


XC.     Friendship  jt      ^t      jt      Jt      «jt 

A     RUDDY  drop  of  manly  blood 
•^*-     The  surging  sea  outweighs, 
The  world  uncertain  conies  and  goes, 

The  lover  rooted  stays. 
I  fancied  he  was  fled, — 

And,  after  many  a  year, 
Glowed  unexhausted  kindliness 

Like  daily  sunrise  there. 
My  careful  heart  was  free  again, 

O  friend,  my  bosom  said, 
Through  thec  alone  the  sky  is  arched, 

Through  thee  the  rose  is  red ; 
All  things  through  thee  take  nobler  form, 
140 


And  look  beyond  the  earth, 
The  mill-round  of  our  fate  appears 

A  sun-path  in  thy  worth. 
Me  too  thy  nobleness  has  taught 

To  master  my  despair  ; 
The  fountains  of  my  hidden  life 

Are  through  thy  friendship  fair. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 

XCI.     Farewell  !  —  but    whenever    you    wel- 
come the  Hour     j*      jt,      Jt,      ^      jt 


,  —  ^  whenever  you  welcome  the 
hour 
That   awakens   the   night-song   of    mirth    in    your 

bower, 
Then   think  of   the  friend  who   once  welcomed  it 

too, 

And  forgot  his  own  griefs  to  be  happy  with  you. 
His  griefs  may  return,  not  a  hope  may  remain 
Of   the  few  that   have  brighten'd  his   pathway  of 

pain, 

But  he  ne'er  will  forget  the  short  vision  that  threw 
Its  enchantment  around  him,  while  lingering  with 

you. 

And  still  on  that  evening,  when  pleasure  fills  up 
To  the  highest  top   sparkle   each   heart   and   each 

cup, 

Where'er  my  path  lies,  be  it  gloomy  or  bright, 
141 


My  soul,  happy  friends,   shall   be  with  you   that 

night  ; 
Shall    join   in    your  revels,  your  sports,  and  your 

wiles, 
And  return   to    me    beaming    all    o'er    with    your 

smiles — 

Too  blest,  if  it  tells  me  that,  'mid  the  gay  cheer, 
Some  kind  voice  had  murmur'd,  "  I  wish  he  were 

here ! " 

Let  Fate  do  her  worst ;   there  are  relics  of  joy, 
Bright    dreams    of     the    past,   which    she    cannot 

destroy, 

Which  come  in  the  night-time  of  sorrow  and  care, 
And  bring  back  the  features  that  joy  used  to  wear. 
Long,  long  be  my  heart  with  such  memories  fill'd  ! 
Like  the  vase,  in  which  roses  have  once  been 

distuTd— 
You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  the  vase  if  you 

will, 

But  the  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still. 

Thomas  Moore. 

XCI  I.     Of  the  terrible  doubt  of  Appearances 

"11  7 HEN    he   whom  I   love  travels  with  me  or 

*  *       sits  a  long  while  holding  me  by  the  hand, 

When  the  subtle  air,  the  impalpable,  the  sense  that 

words  and  reason  hold  not,  surround  us  and 

pervade  us, 

142 


Then  I  am  charged  with  untold  and  untellable 
wisdom,  I  am  silent,  I  require  nothing  further, 

I  cannot  answer  the  question  of  appearances  or  that 
of  identity  beyond  the  grave, 

But  I  walk  or  sit  indifferent,  I  am  satisfied, 

He  ahold  of  my  hand  has  completely  satisfied 
me.  Walt  Whitman. 


143 


X.     Night  and  the  Nightingale 

Serenades 


145 


HPHESE  things  are  but  toys,  to  come  among  such 
-*•  serious  observations.  But  yet,  since  princes  will 
have  such  things,  it  is  better  they  should  be  graced 
with  elegancy.  .  .  .  And  generally  let  it  be  noted  that 
those  things  which  I  have  set  down  here  are  such 
as  do  naturally  take  the  sense,  .  .  .  things  of  great 
beauty  and  pleasure  :  for  they  feed  and  relieve  the 
eye,  before  it  be  full  of  the  same  object. 

Francis  Bacon,  "  Essays." 


H 


XCIII.     The  Night  Piece   Jt      &      Jt      4 
To  Julia 

ER  eyes  the  glow-worm  lend  thee, 

The  shooting  stars  attend  thee  ; 
And  the  elves  also, 
Whose  little  eyes  glow, 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

No  Will-o'-th'-Wisp  mis-light  thee, 
Nor  snake,  or  slow-worm  bite  thee ; 

But  on,  on  thy  way, . 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there's  none  to  affright  thee. 

Let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber  ; 
What  though  the  moon  do  slumber  ? 

The  stars  of  the  night 

Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  clear,  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  woo  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me ; 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silv'ry  feet, 
My  soul  I'll  pour  into  thee. 

Robert  Her  rick. 

The  Garden  of  Love.  IAJ 


XCIV.     Cleveland's  Serenade      Jt      jt 
From  "  The  Pirate  " 


L< 


OVE  wakes  and  weeps 
While  Beauty  sleeps  ! 
O  for  music's  softest  numbers, 
To  prompt  a  theme 
For  Beauty's  dream, 
Soft  as  the  pillow  of  her  slumbers  ! 

Through  groves  of  palm 

Sigh  gales  of  balm, 
Fireflies  on  the  air  are  wheeling ; 

While  through  the  gloom 

Comes  soft  perfume, 
The  distant  beds  of  flowers  revealing. 

O  wake  and  live  ! 

No  dreams  can  give 
A  shadowed  bliss  the  real  excelling  ; 

No  longer  sleep, 

From  lattice  peep, 
And  list  the  tale  that  love  is  telling  ; 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


148 


XCV.     Now  Sleeps  the  Crimson  Petal      Jk 

TV  T  OW  sleeps  the  crimson  petal,  now  the  white  ; 
•*•  ^     Nor  waves  the  cypress  in  the  palace  walk  ; 
Nor  winks  the  gold  fish  in  the  porphyry  font  : 
The  firefly  wakens  :  waken  thou  with  me. 


Now  lies  the  Earth  all  Danae  to  the  stars, 
And  all  thy  heart  lies  open  unto  me. 

Now  slides  the  silent  meteor  on,  and  leaves 
A  shining  furrow,  as  thy  thoughts  in  me. 

Now  folds  the  lily  all  her  sweetness  up, 
And  slips  into  the  bosom  of  the  lake  : 
So  fold  thyself,  my  dearest,  thou,  and  slip 
Into  my  bosom  and  be  lost  in  me. 

Lord  Tennyson, 


XCVI.     While  She  lies  Sleeping        Jk 

"\  1  7EEP  you  no  more,  sad  fountains, 

*  *       What  need  you  flow  so  fast  ? 
Look  how  the  snowy  mountains 

Heaven's  sun  doth  gently  waste. 
But  my  sun's  heavenly  eyes 
View  not  your  weeping, 
That  now  lie  sleeping 
Softly,   now  softly  lie  sleeping  ! 
149 


Sleep  is  a  reconciling, 

A  rest  that  peace  begets; 
Doth  not  the  sun  rise  smiling, 

When  fair  at  e'en  he  sets  ? 
Rest  you,   then,  rest,  sad  e3'es  ! 

Melt  not  in  weeping, 

While  she  lies  sleeping 
Softly,   now  softly  lies  sleeping  ! 

John  Dowland. 

XCVII.     Bedouin  Love  Song     j*      j* 

T7ROM  the  Desert  I  come  to  thee 
-*•       On  a  stallion  shod  with  fire ; 
And  the  winds  are  left  behind 

In  the  speed  of  my  desire. 
Under  thy  window  I  stand, 

And  the  midnight  hears  my  cry  : 
I  love  thee,   I  love  but  thee, 
With  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold/ 

Look  from  thy  window  and  see 

My  passion  and  my  pain  ; 
I  lie  on  the  sands  below, 

And  I  faint  in  thy  disdain. 
Let  the  night-winds  touch  thy  brow 


With  the  heat  of  my  burning  sigh, 
And  melt  thee  to  hear  the  vow 
Of  a  love  that  shall  not  die 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  {he  stars  are  old, 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold  ! 

My  steps  are  nightly  driven, 
By  the  fever  in  my  breast, 
To  hear  from  thy  lattice  breathed 

The  word  that  shall  give  me  rest. 
Open  the  door  of  thy  heart, 

And  open  thy  chamber  door, 
And  my  kisses  shall  teach  thy  lips 
The  love  that  shall  fade  no  more 
Till  the  sun  grows  cold, 
And  the  stars  are  old 
And  the  leaves  of  the  Judgment 
Book  unfold. 

Bayard  Taylor. 


XCVIII.     Spanish  Serenade       J> 

STARS  of  the  summer  night 
Far  in  yon  azure  deeps, 
Hide,  hide  your  golden  light  ! 

She  sleeps  ! 
My  lady  sleeps  ! 
Sleeps  ! 


Moon  of  the  summer  night ! 

Far  down  yon  western  steeps 
Sink,  sink  in  silver  light  ! 

She  sleeps  ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps  ! 

Wind  of  the  summer  night ! 

Where  yonder  woodbine  creeps, 
Fold,  fold  thy  pinions  light  ! 

She  sleeps  ! 
My  lady  sleeps ! 

Sleeps  ! 

Dreams  of  the  summer  night ! 

Tell  her,  her  lover  keeps 
Watch  !   while  in  slumbers  light 

She  sleeps  ! 
My  lady  sleeps  ! 

Sleeps  ! 

H.  W.  Longfellow. 


XCIX.     An  Elizabethan   Serenade     J> 

TI  7"HO  is  it  that  this  dark  night 

*  *       Underneath  my  window  plaineth  ? 
It  is  one  who  from  thy  sight 
Being,  ah,  exiled,  disdaineth 
Every  other  vulgar  light. 
152 


Why,  alas,  and  are  you  he  ? 

Be  not  yet  those  fancies  changed  ? 
Dear,  when  you  find  change  in  me, 

Though  from  me  you  be  estranged, 
Let  my  change  to  ruin  be. 

Well,  in  absence  this  will  die  ; 

Leave  to  see,  and  leave  to  wonder, 
Absence  sure  will  help,  if  I 

Can  learn  how  my  self  to  sunder 
From  what  in  my  heart  doth  lie. 

But  time  will  these  thoughts  remove  : 
Time  doth  work  what  no  men  knoweth. 

Time  doth  as  the  subject  prove  ; 
With  time  still  the  affection  groweth 

In  the  faithful  turtle-dove. 

What  if  you  new  beauties  see, 
Will  they  not  stir  new  affection  ? 

I  will  think  they  pictures  be 
(Image-like,  of  saints'  perfection) 

Poorly  counterfeiting  thee. 

But  your  reason's  purest  light 

Bids  you  leave  such  minds  to  nourish. 
Dear,  do  reason  no  such  spite  ; 

Never  doth  thy  beauty  flourish 
More  than  in  my  reason's  sight. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 
153 


C.     Were  I  a  Drop  of  Dew       jfi      jfr 


WERE  I  a  drop  of  dew 
This  hour, 
And  )7ou 

Some  fair  and  fragrant  flovv'r, — 
O  swiftly  there  I'd  fall, 
And  all 
The  night 
Sleep  in  your  petals  soft  and  white. 

Then  when  the  morning  blue 

Should  break, 

And  you 

From  out  your  dream  should  wake, 

Without  a  sign  or  word, 

Unheard, 

Unseen, 

I'd  fade  amid  your  leaves  of  green ! 

Maurice  Clare. 


CI.     Indian  Serenade  »jt      &      j* 

T   ARISE  from  dreams  of  thee 

-^     In  the  first  sweet  sleep  of  night, 

When  the  winds  are  breathing  low, 

And  the  stars  are  shining  bright  : 
I  arise  from  dreams  of  thee, 

And  a  spirit  in  my  feet 
Has  led  me — who  knows  how  ? — 

To  thy  chamber-window,  Sweet ! 
154 


The  wandering  airs  they  faint 

On  the  dark,  the  silent  stream — 
The  Champak  odours  fail 

Like  sweet  thoughts  in  a  dream ; 
The  nightingale's  complaint, 

It  dies  upon  her  heart ; — 
As  I  must  die  on  thine, 

Oh,  beloved  as  thou  art  ! 

O  lift  me  from  the  grass  ! 

I  die,  I  faint,  I  fail  ! 
Let  thy  love  in  kisses  rain 

On  my  lips  and  eyelids  pale. 
My  cheek  is  cold  and  white,  alas! 

My  heart  beats  loud  and  fast ; — 
Oh  !  press  it  close  to  thine  again, 

Where  it  will  break  at  last. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 


'55 


XI       Butterflies 

Lighter  Love  Lyrics 


157 


Cloten.  T  WOULD  this  music  would  come:  I  am 
•*-  advised  to  give  her  music,  .  .  .  they  say, 
it  will  penetrate.  (Enter  Musicians.)  Come 
on  ;  tune.  If  you  can  penetrate  her  with 
your  fingers,  so  ;  we'll  try  with  voices 
too  :  if  none  will  do,  let  her  remain  :  but 
I'll  ne'er  give  over.  First,  a  very  excellent 
good-conceited  thing :  after,  a  wonderful 
sweet  air,  with  admirable  rich  words  to  it, — 
and  then  let  her  consider. 

William  Shakespeare,  "  Cyinbeline." 


CII.     The  Clown's  Song     «jt      jt      «^t      ^t 

/^\  MISTRESS  mine,  where  are  you  roaming? 
^^     O  stay  and  hear ;  your  true  love's  coming, 

That  can  sing  both  high  and  low : 
Trip  no  further,  pretty  sweeting  ; 
Journeys  end  in  lovers'  meeting, 

Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know. 

What  is  love  ?     'Tis  not  hereafter  ; 
Present  mirth  hath  present  laughter  ; 

What's  to  come  is  still  unsure ; 
In  delay  there  lies  no  plenty  ; 
Then  come  kiss  me,  sweet-and-twenty, 

Youth's  a  stuff  will  not  endure. 

William  Shakespeare. 


159 


CIII.     Song  by  a  Person  of  Quality          jfr 

T     SAID    to    my    heart,    between     sleeping    and 

waking, 
Thou    wild     thing,    that     always    art     leaping     or 

aching, 
What    black,    brown,    or    fair,   in    what   clime,    in 

what  nation, 
By  turns  has  not  taught  thee  a  pit-a-pat-ation  ? 


Thus    accused,    the    wild    thing    gave    this    sober 

reply  : 
See  the   heart   without  motion,  though   Celia  pass 

by! 
Not    the    beauty    she    has,    or    the    wit    that    she 

borrows, 
Gives  the  eye  any  joys,  or  the  heart  any  sorrows. 

When    our    Sappho    appears,    she   whose   wit's   so 

refined, 

I  am  forced  to  applaud  with  the  rest  of  mankind ; 
Whatever  she  says  is  with  spirit  and  fire  ; 
Every  word  I  attend  ;  but  I  only  admire. 

Prudentia  as  vainly  would  put  in  her  claim, 
Ever  gazing  on  Heaven,  tho'  man  is  her  aim  : 
Tis  love,  not  devotion,  that  turns  up  her  eyes  ; 
Those   stars    of    the   world   are   too  good   for    the 
skies. 

160 


But  Chloe  so  lively,  so  easy,  so  fair, 

Her  wit  so  genteel,  without  art,  without  care ; 

When    she    comes   in  my  way,  the   emotion,  the 

pain, 
The  leapings,  the  achings,  return  all  again. 

O  wonderful  creature  !  a  woman  of  reason  ! 
Never    grave    out    of     pride,    never    gay    out    of 

season  ! 

When  so  easy  to  guess  who  this  angel  should  be, 
Would   one    think    Mrs.    Howard   ne'er   dreamt    it 

was  she  ? 

Lord  Peterborough. 

CIV.     Phillis  is  My  only  Joy      Jk      jt      Jk 

T)HILLIS  is  my  only  joy, 
-*•        Faithless  as  the  winds  or  seas, 
Sometimes  cunning,   sometimes  coy, 
Yet  she  never  fails  to  please  ; 

If  with  a  frown 

I  am  cast  down, 

Phillis  smiling 

And  beguiling, 
Makes  me  happier  than  before. 

Though  alas  !  too  late  I  find 

Nothing  can  her  fancy  fix, 
Yet  the  moment  she  is  kind 

I  forgive  her  for  her  tricks  ; 
161 


Which  though   I  see, 
I  can't  get  free, — 
She  deceiving, 
I  believing, — 
What  need  lovers  wish   for  more  ? 

Sir  diaries  Scdley. 


CV.     Love-Thoughts    jfi      ^      £>      £ 

T   WOULD  be  calm,— I  would  be  free 
••-      From  thoughts  and   images  of  Thee  ; 
But  Nature  and  thy  will  conspire 
To  bar  me  from  my  fair  desire. 

The  trees  are  moving  with   thy  grace, 
The  water  will  reflect  thy  face  ; 
The  very  flowers  are  plotting  deep, 
And  in  thy  breath  their  odours  steep. 

The  breezes,  when  mine  eyes  I  close, 
With  sighs,  just  like  mine  own,  impose  ; 
The  nightingale  then  takes  her  part, 
And  plays  thy  voice  against  my  heart. 

If  Thou  then  in  one  golden  chain 
Canst  bind  the  world,   I  strive  in  vain  ; 
Perchance  my  wisest  scheme  would  be 
To  join  this  great  conspiracy. 

Lord  Houghlon. 
162 


CVI.     The  Promise     «j*        j*      ^      j*      & 

BROWNED  with  flowers,  I  saw  fair  Amarillis 
^-"  By  Thirsis  sit,  hard  by  a  fount  of  crystal, 
And  with  her  hand  more  white  than  snow  or 

lilies 
On      sand     she      wrote,     "  My    faith     shall     be 

immortal," 

And  suddenly  a  storm  of  wind  and  weather 
Blew  all  her  faith  and  sand  away  together. 
William  Byrd. 

CVII.     Last  May  a  Braw  Wooer       Jt      & 

T    AST  May  a   braw  wooer  cam  down   the  lang 

-L-        glen, 
And  sair  wi'  his  love  he  did  deave  me  ; 

I  said  there  was  naething  I  hated  like  men, 
The  deuce  gae  wi'm,  to  believe  me,  believe  me, 
The  deuce  gae  wi'm,  to  believe  me. 

He  spak  o'  the  darts  in  my  bonnie  black  een, 
And  vowed  for  my  love  he  was  dying ; 

I  said  he  might  die  when  he  liked  for  Jean  : 
The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying,  for  lying, 
The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying. 

A  weel-stocked  mailen— himsel'  for  the  laird — 

And  marriage  aff-hand,  were  his  proffers  : 
I  never  loot  on  that  I  kenned  it,  or  car'd, 
163 


But  thought  that  I  might  hae  waur  ofters,  waur 

offers, 
But  thought  I   might  hae  waur  offers. 

But  what  wad  ye  think  ?     In  a  fortnight  or  less — 
The  deil  tak  his  taste  to  gae  near  her ! 

He  up  the  lang  loan  to  my  black  cousin  Bess, 
Guess  ye  how,  the  jad  !  I  could  bear  her,  could 

bear  her, 
Guess  ye  how,  the  jad  !  I   could  bear  her. 

But  a'  the  neist  week  as  I  fretted  wi'  care, 

I  gaed  to  the  tryste  o'  Dalgarnock, 
And  wha  but  my  fine   fickle  lover  was  there  ! 

I  glowered  as  I'd  seen  a  warlock,  a  warlock, 

I  glowered  as  I'd  seen  a  warlock. 

But  owre  my  left  shouther  I  gae  him  a  blink, 
Lest  neebors  might  say  I   was  saucy  ; 

My  wooer  he  caper'd  as  he'd  been  in  drink, 
And  vow'd  I  was   his  dear  lassie,  dear  lassie, 
And  vow'd  I  was  his  dear  lassie. 

I  spier'd  for  my  cousin  fu'  couthy  and  sweet, 

Gin  she  had  recovered  her  hearin, 
And    how  her    new   shoon   fit    her    auld   shackl't 

feet, 

But  Heavens  !  how  he  fell  a  swearin',  a  swearin', 
But   Heavens  !  how  he  fell  a  swearin'. 
164 


He  begged,  for  Gudesake,  I  wad  be  his  wife, 
Or  else  I   wad  kill  him  wi'  sorrow  ; 

So,  e'en  to  preserve  the  poor  body  in  life, 
I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow,  to-morrow, 
I  think  I   maun  wed  him  to-morrow. 

Robert  Burns. 


CVIII.     The  Dissembler       jfi      Jt      Jt 

npHE  merchant,  to  secure  his  treasure, 
•*-      Conveys  it  in  a  borrowed  name  : 
Euphelia  serves  to  grace  my  measure; 
But  Chloe  is  my  real  flame. 

My  softest  verse,  my  darling  lyre 

Upon  Euphelia's  toilet  lay  ; 
When  Chloe  noted  her  desire, 

That  I  should  sing,  that  I  should  play. 

My  lyre  I  tune,  my  voice  I  raise ; 

But  with  my  numbers  mix  my  sighs  : 
And  while  I  sing  Euphelia's  praise, 

I  fix  my  soul  on  Chloe's  eyes. 

Fair  Chloe  blush'd  :   Euphelia  frown'd 
I  sung  and  gazed  :  I  play'd  and  trembled 

And  Venus  to  the  Loves  around 

Remark'd,  how  ill  we  all  dissembled. 

Matthew  Prior. 


CIX.     When  Love  is  Kind         &      jt 

VyHEN  Love  is  kind, 
*  •       Cheerful  and  free, 
Love's  sure  to  find 
Welcome  from  me. 

But  when  Love  brings 

Heartache  or  pang, 
Tears,  and  such  things — 

Love  may  go  hang ! 

If  Love  can  sigh 

For  one  alone, 
Well  pleased  am  I 

To  be  that  one. 

But  should  I  sec 

Love  giv'n  to  rove 
To  two  or  three, 

Then — goodbye,  Love  ! 

Love  must,  in  short, 

Keep  fond  and  true, 
Through  good  report, 

And  evil  too. 

Else,  here  I  swear, 

Young  Love  may  go, 
For  aught  I  care — 
To  Jericho  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 
166 


CX.     A   Hymn  to   Love      Jt 


I 


WILL  confess, 
With  cheerfulness, 
Love  is  a  thing  so  likes  me, 
That,  let  her  lay 
On  me  all  day, 
I'll  kiss  the  hand  that  strikes  me. 

I  will  not,  I, 

Now  blubb'ring  cry  : 
It,  ah  !  too  late  repents  me, 

That   I  did  fall 

To  love  at  all, 
Since  love  so  much  contents  me. 

No,  no,  I'll  be 

In  fetters  free  ; 
While  others  they  sit  wringing 

Their  hands  for  pain, 

I'll  entertain 
The  wounds  of  love  with  singing. 

Robert  Hcrrick. 


CXI.     Sympathy  &      Jt      &      Jt      & 

A     KNIGHT  and  a  lady  once  met  in  a  grove, 
**•     While  each  was  in  quest  of  a  fugitive  love ; 
A  river  ran  Imournfully  murmuring  by, 
And  they  wept  in  its  waters  for  sympathy. 
167 


"  O,  never  was  knight  such  a  sorrow  that  bore  ! " 
"  O,  never  was  maid  so  deserted  before  ! " 
"  From  life  and  its  woes  let  us  instantly  fly, 
And  jump  in  together  for  company  !" 

They  search'd  for  an  eddy  that  suited  the  deed, 
But  here  was  a  bramble,  and  there  was  a  weed ; 
"  How  tiresome  it  is  ! "  said  the  fair  with  a  sigh ; 
So  they  sat  down  to  rest  them  in  company. 

They  gazed  at  each  other,  the  maid  and  the  knight ; 
How  fair  was  her  form,  and  how  goodly  his  height ! 
"  One  mournful  embrace,"  sobbed  the  youth,  "  ere 

we  die  ! " 
So  kissing  and  crying  kept  company. 

"  O,  had  I  but  loved  such  an  angel  as  you  ! " 
"O,  had  but  my  swain  been  a  quarter  as  true  !" 
"  To  miss  such  perfection  how  blinded  was  I  ! " 
Sure  now  they  were  excellent  company  ! 

At  length  spoke  the  lass,  'twixt  a  smile  and  a  tear, 
"  The  weather  is  cold  for  a  watery  bier ; 
When  summer  returns  we  may  easily  die, 
Till  then  let  us  sorrow  in  company." 

Reginald  Heber. 


168 


CX 1 1.     The  Stolen  Heart  jfi      jt 

T   PRYTHEE  send  me  back  my  heart, 
-*-     Since  I  cannot  have  thine ; 
For  if  from  yours  you  will  not  part, 
Why  then  shouldst  thou  have  mine? 

Yet  now  I  think  on't,  let  it  lie ; 

To  find  it  were  in  vain, 
For  thou'st  a  thief  in  either  eye 

Would  steal  it  back  again. 

Why  should  two  hearts  in  one  breast  lie, 
And  yet  not  lodge  together  ? 

O  love  !   where  is  thy  sympathy, 
If  thus  our  breasts  you  sever? 

But  love  is  such  a  mystery, 

I  cannot  find  it  out  ; 
For  when  I  think  I'm  best  resolved, 

I  then  am  most  in  doubt. 

Then  farewell  love,  and  farewell  woe, 

I  will  no  longer  pine  ; 
For  I'll  believe  I  have  her  heart 

As  much  as  she  hath  mine. 

Sir  John  Suckling, 


flie  Gprden  of  Love. 


CX 1 1 1.     Dear  Fanny  Jk      £>      Jt      & 

"OHE  has  beauty,  but  still  you  must  keep  your 
^         heart  cool  : 

She  has  wit,  but  you  mustn't  be  caught  so  "  : 
Thus  Reason  advises,  but  Reason's  a  fool, 

And  'tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  so, 

Dear  Fanny, 
'Tis  not  the  first  time  I  have  thought  so. 

"  She   is   lovely ;    then  love  her,  nor   let  the   bliss 

fly; 

'Tis  the  charm  of  youth's  vanishing   season "  ; 
Thus  Love  has  advised  me,  and  who  will  deny 
That  Love  reasons  much  better  than  Reason, 

Dear  Fanny  ? 
Love  reasons  much  better  than  Reason. 

Thomas  Moore. 


CXIV.    The  Deceiver 


Y 


OU  smiled,  you  spoke,  and  I  believed, 
By  every  word  and  smile  deceived. 
Another  man  would  hope  no  more— 
Nor  hope  what  I  had  hoped  before  : 
But  let  not  this  last  wish  be  vain, 
Deceive— deceive  me  once  again  ! 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 
170 


CXV.     Phillida  Flouts  me  j* 

/^\H,  what  a  plague  is  love! 
^-^     I  cannot  bear  it, 
She  will  inconstant  prove, 

I  greatly  fear  it ; 
It  so  torments  my  mind, 

That  my  heart  faileth, 
She  wavers  with  the  wind, 

As  a  ship  saileth  ; 
Please  her  the  best  I  may, 
She  looks  another  way  ; 
Alack  and  well  a-day  ! 

Phillida  flouts  me. 

I  often  heard  her  say 

That  she  loved  posies  ; 
In  the  last  month  of  May 

I  gave  her  roses, 
Cowslips  and  gillyflow'rs 

And  the  sweet  lily, 
I  got  to  deck  the  bow'rs 

Of  my  dear  Philly ; 
She  did  them  all  disdain, 
And  threw  them  back  again  ; 
Therefore,  'tis  flat  and  plain 

Phillida  flouts  me. 

Which  way  soe'er  I  go, 
She  still  torments  me  ; 
171 


And  whatsoe'er  I  do, 

Nothing  contents  me  : 
I  fade,  and  pine  away 

With  grief  and  sorrow  ; 
I  fall  quite  to  decay, 

Like  any  shadow ; 
Since  'twill  no  better  be, 
I'll  bear  it  patiently  ; 
Yet  all  the  world  may  see 

Phillida  flouts  me. 

Seventeenth  Century  Song. 

CXVI.     Tarn  Glen      Jt      &      &      & 

A  /T  Y  heart  is  a-breaking,  dear  Tittie  ! 
^  *  •*•     Some  counsel  unto  me  come  len', 
To  anger  them  a'  is  a  pity, 

But  what  will  I  do  wi'  Tarn  Glen  ? 

I'm  thinking  wi'  sic  a  braw  fellow, 
In  poortith  I  might  mak  a  fen' ; 

What  care  I  in  riches  to  wallow, 
If  I  maunna  marry  Tarn  Glen  ? 

There's  Lowrie  the  laird  o'  Dumeller, 

"  Guid-day  to  you," — brute  !  he  comes  ben  : 

He  brags  and  he  braws  o'  his  siller, 
But  when  will  he  dance  like  Tarn  Glen  ? 

My  minnie  does  constantly  deave  me, 
And  bids  me  beware  o'  young  men  ; 
172 


They  flatter,  she  says,  to  deceive  me, 
But  wha  can  think  sae  o'  Tarn  Glen  ? 

My  daddie  says,  gin  I'll  forsake  him, 
He'll  gie  me  gude  hunder  marks  ten  : 

But,  if  it's  ordained  I  maun  take  him, 
O  wha  will  I  get  but  Tarn  Glen  ? 

Yestreen  at  the  valentine's  dealing, 
My  heart  to  my  mou'  gied  a  sten  ; 

For  thrice  I  drew  ane  without  failing, 
And  thrice  it  was  written — Tarn  Glen. 

The  last  Halloween  I  was  waukin 
My  droukit  sark-sleeve,  as  ye  ken  ; 

His  likeness  cam  up  the  house  staukin, 
And  the  very  grey  breeks  o'  Tarn  Glen  ! 

Come,  counsel,  dear  Tittie  !  don't  tarry — 
I'll  gie  ye  my  bonnie  black  hen, 

Gif  ye  will  advise  me  to  marry 
The  lad  I  lo'e  dearly— Tarn  Glen. 

Robert  Burns. 

CXVII.     The  Despairing  Lover         <£ 

TySTRACTED  with  care, 
*-'     For  Phillis  the  fair, 
Since  nothing  can  move  her, 
Poor  Damon,  her  lover, 
Resolves  in  despair 
173 


No  longer  to  languish, 
Nor  bear  so  much  anguish  ; 
But,  mad  with  his  love, 

To  a  precipice  goes, 
Where  a  leap  from  above 

Will  soon  finish  his  woes. 

When,  in  rage,  he  came  there, 

Beholding  how  steep 
The  sides  did  appear, 

And  the  bottom  how  deep  ; 
His  torments  projecting, 
And  sadly  reflecting 
That  a  lover  forsaken 

A  new  love  may  get ; 
But  a  neck  when  once  broken, 

Can  never  be  set  : 

And  that  he  could  die 

Whenever  he  would  ; 
But  that  he  could  live 

But  as  long  as  he  could  ; 
How  grievous  soever 

The  torment  might  grow, 
He  scorn'd  to  endeavour 

To  finish  it  so. 
But  bold,  unconcern'd, 

At  the  thoughts  of  the  pain, 
He  calmly  return'd 

To  his  cottage  again. 


William  Walsh. 
174 


CXVIII.     Thought  from  Catullus      ,* 


that  dear  bewitching  prude, 
^  —     Still  calls  me  saucy,  pert,  and  rude, 

And  sometimes  almost  strikes  me; 
And  yet  I  swear,  I  can't  tell  how, 
Spite  of  the  knitting  of  her  brow, 

I'm  very  sure  she  likes  me. 

Ask  you  me  why  I  fancy  thus  ? 
Why,  I  have  call'd  her  jilt,  and  puss, 

And  thought  myself  above  her  ; 
And  yet  I  feel  it  to  my  cost, 
That  when  I  rail  against  her  most, 

I'm  very  sure  I  love  her. 

Robert  Lloyd. 


'75 


XII.     The  Bower 

The  Ardent  Lover. 


177 


XII 

HPHERE  remains  still  in  some  small  measure, 
•^  beyond  the  merely  formative  and  sustaining 
power,  another,  which  we  painters  call  passion  :  I 
don't  know  what  the  philosophers  call  it :  we  know 
it  makes  people  red  or  white,  and  therefore  it  must 
be  something  itself,  and  perhaps  it  is  the  most  truly 
"  poetic  "  or  "  making  "  force  of  all,  creating  a  world 
of  its  own  out  of  a  glance,  or  a  sigh.  ...  It  seems 
to  me  the  feelings  of  the  purest  and  most  mightily 
passioned  human  souls  are  likely  to  be  the  truest. 
John  Kuskin,  "  Ethics  of  the  Dust." 


CXIX.     Cean  Dubh  Deelish  '    Jt 


T)UT  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling, 
-*-        Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above  ; 
Oh,  mouth  of  honey,  with  the  thyme  for  fragrance, 

Who,   with    heart    in    breast,    could    deny    you 

love  ? 
Oh,  many  and  many  a  young  girl  for  me  is  pining 

Letting  her  locks  of  gold  to  the  cold  wind  free, 
For  me,  the  foremost  of  our  gay  young  fellows  ; 

But  I'd  leave  a  hundred,  pure  love,  for  thee  ! 
Then  put  your  head,  darling,  darling,  darling, 

Your  darling  black  head  my  heart  above  ; 
Oh,  mouth  of  honey,  with  the  thyme  for  fragrance, 

Who,  with  heart  in  breast,  could  deny  you  love  ? 
Sir  Samuel  Ferguson  (adapted  from  the  Irish). 

i  (Pron.  Ca\vn  dhu  deelish—  i.e.,"  Dear  black  head.") 
179 


CXX.     To  Celia  jfc      Jt      &      jfc      jfc      jfr 

DRINK  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 
And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sip, 
I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee, 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  withered  be  : 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe  : 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me  ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee  ! 

Ben  Jonson. 


CXXI.     There's  a  Woman  like  a  Dew-drop 

'T* HERE'S    a   woman  like   a  dew-drop,   she's  so 
•*-      purer  than  the  purest ; 
And   her   noble   heart's   the   noblest,   yes,   and   her 

sure  faith's  the  surest : 

And   her  eyes  are  dark   and  humid,  like  the  depth 
on  depth  of  lustre 

1 80 


Hid    i'    the    harebell,    while    her    tresses,    sunnier 

than  the  wild-grape  cluster, 
Gush    in    golden-tinted    plenty    down     her    neck's 

rose-misted  marble  : 
Then    her   voice's     music   .   .    .   call    it   the    well's 

bubbling,  the  bird's  warble  ! 

And    this    woman    says,   "  My   days    were   sunless 

and  my  nights  were  moonless, 
"  Parched    the    pleasant    April     herbage,    and    the 

lark's  heart's  outbreak  tuneless, 
"  If    you    loved    me   not ! "     And    I    who — ah,  for 

words  of  flame  !  adore  her  ! 
Who  am  made  to  lay  my  spirit  prostrate   palpably 

before  her — 
I    may    enter    at    her    portal    soon,    as    now    her 

lattice  takes  me, 
And  by  noontide  as  by  midnight  make  her   mine, 

as  hers  she  makes  me  ! 

Robert  Browning. 

CXXII.     Faith's   Avowal    Jt      &      &      jt 

"T^vEAR,  if  you  change,  I'll  never  choose  again  ; 
•"•"^     Sweet,  if  you  shrink,  I'll  never  think  of  love ; 
Fair,  if  you  fail,  I'll  judge  all  beauty  vain  ; 

Wise,  if  too  weak,  more  wits  I'll  never  prove. 
Dear,  sweet,  fair,  wise, — change,  shrink,  nor  be  not 

weak  ; 

And,  on  my  faith,  my  faith  shall  never  break. 
181 


Earth  with  her  flowers  shall  sooner  heaven  adorn ; 
Heaven    her    bright    stars    through    earth's   dim 

globe  shall  move, 

Fire  heat  shall  lose,  and  frosts  of  flames  be  born  ; 

Air,  made  to  shine,  as  black  as  hell  shall  prove  : 

Earth,    heaven,    fire,   air,    the    world    transformed 

shall  view, 
Ere  I  prove  false  to  faith,  or  strange  to  you. 

John  Dowland. 

CXXIII.     Love's  Philosophy      jt,      jt,      jt 


HP  HE  fountains  mingle  with  the  river 
•*•      And  the  rivers  with  the  ocean, 
The  winds  of  Heaven  mix  for  ever 

With  a  sweet  emotion  ; 
Nothing  in  the  world  is  single  ; 

All  things  by  a  law  divine 
In  one  another's  being  mingle, — 

Why  not  I  with  thine  ? — 

See,  the  mountains  kiss  high  Heaven 

And  the  waves  clasp  one  another; 
No  sister-flower  would  be  forgiven 

If  it  disdained  its  brother ; 
And  the  sunlight  clasps  the  earth, 

And  the  moonbeams  kiss  the  sea  : 
What  is  all  this  sweet  work  worth, 

If  thou  kiss  not  me  ? 

P.  B.  Shelley. 
182 


CXXIV.     To  Antheajt      Jt 


T)ID  me  to  live,  and  I  will  live 
•*-*     Thy  Protestant  to  be  ; 
Or  bid  me  love,  and  I  will  give 
A  loving  heart  to  thee. 

A  heart  as  soft,  a  heart  as  kind, 

A  heart  as  sound  and  free, 
As  in  the  whole  world  thou  canst  find, 

That  heart  I'll  give  to  thee. 


Bid  that  heart  stay,  and  it  will  stay 

To  honour  thy  decree ; 
Or  bid  it  languish  quite  away, 

And't  shall  do  so  for  thee. 


Bid  me  to  weep,  and  I  will  weep, 

While  I  have  eyes  to  see  ; 
And  having  none,  yet  I  will  keep 

A  heart  to  weep  for  thee. 

Thou  art  my  life,  my  love,  my  heart, 

The  very  eyes  of  me  ; 
And  hast  command  of  every  part, 
To  live  and  die  for  thee. 

Robert  Herrick. 
183 


CXXV.     Maid  of  Athens   *      *      J> 

MAID  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
Give,  oh  give  me  back  my  heart  ! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 
Zoe  mou,  sas  agapo.1 

By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Woo'd  by  each  Aegean  wind  ; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheeks'  blooming  tinge  ; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
Zoe  mou,  sas  agapo. 

By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste, 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist, 
By  all  the  token-flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 
Zoe  mou,  sas  agapo. 

Maid  of  Athens  !     I  am  gone  : 
Think  of  me,  sweet !   when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul : 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?     No  ! 
Zoe  mou,  sas  agapo. 


Lord  Byron. 


My  life,  I  love  you. 
184 


CXXVI.     Come,  O  Come  !          J      Jt      jt. 


,  O  come,  my  life's  delight, 
^  —     Let  me  not  in  languor  pine  ! 
Love  loves  no  delay  ;   thy  sight, 

The  more  enjoyed,  the  more  divine  : 
O  come,  and  take  from  me 
The  pain  of  being  deprived  of  thee  ! 

Thou  all  sweetness  dost  enclose, 

Like  a  little  world  of  bliss. 
Beauty  guards  thy  looks  :  the  rose 

In  them  pure  and  eternal  is. 
Come,  then,  and  make  thy  flight 
As  swift  to  me,  as  heavenly  light. 

Thomas  Campion. 

CXXVI  I.     Love  Inveterate  «^t     Jt      £      jt- 

\\  7  ERE  I  as  base  as  is  the  lowly  plain, 

And  you,  my  love,  as  high  as  heaven  above, 
Yet  should  the  thoughts  of  me,  your  humble  swain, 

Ascend  to  heaven  in  honour  of  my  love. 
Were  I  as  high  as  heaven  above  the  plain, 

And  you,  my  love,  as  humble  and  as  low 
As  are  the  deepest  bottoms  of  the  main, 

Wheresoe'er  you  were,  with  you  my  love  should 

g°> 

Were  you  the  earth,  dear  love,  and  I  the  skies, 
My  love  should  shine  on  you  like  to  the  sun, 
'85 


And  look  upon  you  with  ten  thousand  eyes, 
Till  heaven  waxed  blind,  and  till  the  world  were 

done. 

Wheresoe'er  I  am,  below,  or  else  above  you, 
Wheresoe'er  you  are,  my  heart  shall  truly  love 
you. 

J.  Sylvester. 


CXXVIII.     O    Wert    Thou    in    the    Cauld 
Blast       jt      J,      jk      jb      &      Jt      j* 

S~\  WERT  thou  in  the  cauld  blast 
^-^  On  yonder  lea,  on  yonder  lea, 
My  plaidie  to  the  angry  airt, 

I'd  shelter  thee,  I'd  shelter  thee  : 
Or  did  misfortune's  bitter  storms 

Around  thee  blaw,  around  thee  blaw, 
Thy  bield  should  be  my  bosom, 

To  share  it  a',  to  share  it  a'. 

Or  were  I  in  the  wildest  waste, 

Sae  black  and  bare,  sae  black  and  bare, 
The  desert  were  a  paradise, 

If  thou  wert  there,  if  thou  wert  there ; 
Or  were  I  monarch  o'  the  globe, 

Wi'  thee  to  reign,  wi'  thee  to  reign, 
The  brightest  jewel  in  my  crown 

Wad  be  my  queen,  wad  be  my  queen. 

Robert  Burns. 
1 86 


CXXIX.     A  Man's  Requirements      jt 

T     OVE  me,  Sweet,  with  all  thou  art, 
*-*     Feeling,  thinking,  seeing  : 
Love  me  in  the  lightest  part, 
Love  me  in  full  being. 

Love  me  with  thine  open  youth 

In  its  frank  surrender  ; 
Witli  the  vowing  of  thy  mouth, 

With  its  silence  tender. 

Love  me  with  thine  azure  eyes, 
Made  for  earnest  granting  ; 

Taking  colour  from  the  skies, — 
Can  Heaven's  truth  be  wanting  ? 

Love  me  with  their  lids,  that  fall 
Snow-like  at  first  meeting  ; 

Love  me  with  thine  heart,  that  all 
Neighbours  then  see  beating. 

Love  me  with  thine  hand  stretched  out 

Freely,  open-minded  : 
Love  me  with  thy  loitering  foot, — 

Hearing  one  behind  it. 

Love  me  with  thy  voice  that  turns 

Sudden  faint  above  me ; 
Love  me  with  thy  blush  that  burns 

When  I  murmur,  Love  me! 
187 


Love  me  with  thy  thinking  soul, 

Break  it  to  love  sighing ; 
Love  me  with  thy  thoughts  that  roll 

On  through  living — dying. 

Love  me  in  thy  gorgeous  airs, 
When  the  world  has  crown'd  thee  ; 

Love  me  kneeling  at  thy  prayers 
With  the  angels  round  thee. 

Love  me  pure,  as  musers  do, 

Up  the  woodlands  shady ; 
Love  me  gaily,  fast  and  true, 

As  a  winsome  lady. 

Through  all  hopes  that  keep  us  brave, 

Further  off  or  nigher, 
Love  me  for  the  house  and  grave, 

And  for  something  higher. 

Thus,  if  thou  wilt  love  me,  f)ear, 

Woman's  love  no  fable, 
/  will  love  thee — half  a  year, 

As  a  man  is  able. 

E.  B.  Browning. 


1 88 


CXXX.     How  Many  Times        jt      jt,      jt 

T  T  OW  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear  ? 
*•  -^      Tell  me  how  many  thoughts  there  be 

In  the  atmosphere 

Of  a  new-fall'n  year, 
Whose  white  and  sable  hours  appear 
The  latest  flake  of  Eternity  :— 
So  many  times  do  I  love  thee,  dear. 

How  many  times  do  I  love  again  ? 
Tell  me  how  many  beads  there  are 

In  a  silver  chain 

Of  evening  rain 

Unravelled  from  the  tumbling  main 
And  threading  the  eye  of  a  yellow  star  : — 
So  many  times  do  I  love  again. 

Thomas  Lovell  Beddoes. 

CXXX  I.    .Life  in  a  Love   Jk      Jt      Jt      jt, 

-p  SCAPE  me  ? 
•*— '     Never— 

Beloved  ! 
While  I  am  I,  and  you  are  you, 

So  long  as  the  world  contains  us  both, 
Me  the  loving  and  you  the  loth, 
While  the  one  eludes,  must  the  other  pursue. 
My  life  is  a  fault  at  last,  I  fear  : 

It  seems  too  much  like  a  fate,  indeed  ! 
Though  I  do  my  best  I  shall  scarce  succeed, 
189 


But  what  if  I  fail  of  my  purpose  here  ? 
It  is  but  to  keep  the  nerves  at  strain, 

To  dry  one's  eyes  and  laugh  at  a  fall, 
And,  baffled,  get  up  to  begin  again, — 

So  the  chace  takes  up  one's  life,  that's  all. 
While,  look  but  once  from  your  farthest  bound 

At  me  so  deep  in  the  dust  and  dark, 
No  sooner  the  old  hope  drops  to  ground 
Than  a  new  one,  straight  to  the  self-same  mark, 
I  shape  me — 
Ever 
Removed  ! 

Robert  Browning. 


CXXXII.     Ask  Me  no  More     J      jt      & 

ASK    me   no  more :    the    moon    may  draw  the 
sea; 
The  cloud  may  stoop  from  heaven  and  take  the 

shape 

With  fold  to  fold,  of  mountain  or  of  cape ; 
But,  O  too  fond,  when  have  I  answer'd  thee  ? 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Ask  me  no  more  :    what  answer  should  I  give  ? 
I  love  not  hollow  cheek  or  faded  eye  : 
Yet,  O  my  friend,  I  will  not  have  thee  die  ! 
Ask  me  no  more,  lest  I  should  bid  thee  live  ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 
190 


Ask  me  no  more  :    thy  fate  and  mine  are  seal'd  : 
^J[_strove  against  the  stream,  and  .all-  in  .vain  : 

Let  the  great  river  take  me  to  the  main  : 
No  more,  dear  love,  for  at  a  touch  I  yield  ; 
Ask  me  no  more. 

Lord  Tennyson, 


CXXXIII.     A  Red,  Red  Rose  3>      , 

/^v    MY  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
^~^>     That's  newly  sprung  in  June  : 
O,  my  luve's  like  the   melodic, 
That's  sweetly  played  in  tune. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I  : 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 
And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun  : 

I  will  luve   thee  still,   my  dear, 
While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve  ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  a-while  ! 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 
Tho'  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

Robert  Burns. 
191 


y 
XIII. 

Song  Birds  and  Late  Roses 

Little  Lyrics  oj  Happy  Love. 


•93 


XIII 

~\17E  had  now,  therefore,  the  satisfaction  of 
*  *  seeing  them  fly  into  each  other's  arms  in 
a  transport.  "  After  all  my  misfortunes,"  cried  my 
son  George,  "  to  be  thus  rewarded  !  Sure  this  is 
more  than  I  could  ever  have  presumed  to  hope 
for.  To  be  possessed  of  all  that's  good,  and  after 
such  an  interval  of  pain  !  My  warmest  wishes 
could  never  rise  so  high  ! " 

Oliver  Goldsmith  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakeficlci." 


CXXXIV.     A  Birthday      j*      Jk 


M 


Y  heart  is  like  a  singing  bird 


Whose  nest  is  in  a  watered  shoot  ; 
My  heart  is  like  an  appletree 

Whose  boughs  are  bent  with  thickset  fruit 
My  heart  is  like  a  rainbow  shell 

That  paddles  in  a  halcyon  sea; 
My  heart  is  gladder  than  all  these 

Because  my  love  is  come  to  me. 

Raise  me  a  dais  of  silk  and  down  ; 

Hang  it  with   vair  and  purple  dyes  ; 
Carve  it  in  doves,  and  pomegranates, 

And  peacocks  with  a  hundred  eyes  ; 
Work  it  in  gold  and   silver  grapes, 

In  leaves,  and  silver  fleur-de-lys  ; 
Because  the  birthday  of  my  life 

Is  come,  my  love  is  come  to  me. 

Christina  G.  Rossetti. 

Tlie  Garden  o)  Lace.  *97 


CXXXV.     The  Time  of  Roses  Jt 

IT  was  not  in  the  Winter 
Our  loving  lot  was  cast ; 
It  was  the  Time  of  Roses, — 
We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd  ! 

'Twas  twilight,  and  I  bade  you  go, 

But  still  you  held  me  fast ; 
It  was  the  Time  of  Roses, — 

We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd  ! 

What  else  could  peer  thy  glowing  cheek, 

That  tears  began  to  stud? 
And  when  I  ask'd  the  like  of  Love, 

You  snatch' d  a  damask  bud, 

And  oped  it  to  the  dainty  core, 

Still  glowing  to  the  last, — 
It  was  the  Time  of  Roses, — 

We  pluck'd  them  as  we  pass'd  ! 

Thomas  Hood. 


CXXXVI.     The  Tryst        j*      *      *      <* 

T     LEANED  out  of  window,  I   smelt  the  white 
•*•         clover, 

Dark,  dark  was  the  garden,  I  saw  not  the  gate  ; 
"Now  if  there  be  footsteps,  he  comes,  my    one 
lover — 

198 


Hush,  nightingale,   hush  !     O   sweet  nightingale, 
wait 

Till  I  listen  and  hear 
If  a  step  draweth  near, 
For  my  love  he  is  late  ! 

"  The    skies    in    the    darkness    stoop    nearer    and 

nearer, 

A  cluster  of  stars  hangs  like  fruit  in  the  tree, 
The  fall  of  the  water  comes  sweeter,  comes  clearer  : 
To  what  art  thou   listening,  and  what  dost  thou 
see  ? 

Let  the  star-clusters  glow, 
Let  the  sweet  waters  flow, 
And  cross  quickly  to  me. 

"You  night  moths  that  hover   where   honey  brims 

over 

From  sycamore  blossoms,  or  settle  or  sleep ; 
You    glow-worms,    shine    out,     and    the    pathway 

discover 

To   him    that   comes   darkling  along   the   rough 
steep. 

Ah,  my  sailor,  make  haste, 
For  the  time  runs  to  waste, 
And  my  love  lieth  deep — 

"  Too    deep    for    swift   telling ;   and  yet,   my  one 

lover, 

I've   conned  thee   an  answer,  it  waits  thee  to- 
night." 

199 


By    the    sycamore    passed    he,    and    through    the 

white  clover, 

Then  all  the  sweet  speech  I  had  fashioned  took 
flight; 

But  I'll  love  him  more,  more 
Than  e'er  wife  loved  before, 
Be  the  days  dark  or  bright. 

Jean  Ingelow. 

CXXXVII.     Love's  Bird     J      *      *      & 

\\  7" HEN  thrushes  rest  the  weary  head, 
*  And  linnets  lie  in  gold  and  green, 

When  blackbirds  on  a  downy  bed 
Are  silvered  with  a  moony  sheen, 

What  voice  awakes  the  emerald  house? 

What  love  incarnate  flies  on  wings  ? 
What  passion  shakes  the  trembling  boughs? 

It  is  the  Bird  of  Love  that  sings. 

It  is  the  Bird  of  Love  that  sings, 
Stabbing  our  silence  like  a  sword, 

And  Love  himself  that  flies  on  wings, 
God  and  enchanter  and  no  bird. 

Our  moon  of  honey,  our  marriage  moon, 
Rides  in  the  heaven  for  our  delight  ; 

The  silver  world  grows  golden  soon, 
Honey  and  gold  spilled  in  the  night. 


The  Bird  of  Love,  the  Bird  of  pain, 
He  sings  our  marriage  moon  away  ; 

Filling  the  moon  with  golden  rain, 
Betwixt  the  darkness  and  the  day. 

Closer  and  closer,  hold  me  close, 
For  is  it  Love  or  Death  he  sings  ? 

And  is  it  Love  or  Death  that  goes 
Through  the  sweet  night  with  rustling  wings  ? 
Katharine  Tynan. 

CXXXVIII.     Finland  Love  Song      «*       & 

T   SAW  the  moon  rise  clear 

O'er  hills  and  vales  of  snow, 
Nor  told  my  fleet  reindeer 

The  track  I  wish'd  to  go. 
Yet  quick  he  bounded  forth  ; 
For  well  my  reindeer  knew 
I've  but  one  path  on  earth — 
The  path  which  leads  to  you. 

The  gloom  that  winter  cast 

How  soon  the  heart  forgets, 
When  Summer  brings  at  last, 

Her  sun  that  never  sets  ! 
So  dawn'd  my  love  for  you  ; 

So,  fix'd  through  joy  and  pain, 
Than  summer  sun  more  true, 

'Twill  never  set  again. 

Thomas  Moore. 
201 


CXXXIX.     Were  I  a  Cloudlet  jfc      * 

\\  fERE  I  a  cloudlet,  flying,  flying, 

*  •  And  you  a  floweret,  dying,  dying, 
My  heart's  blood  on  your  leaves  I'd  pour, 
And  vanish  away  for  evermore. 

Were  you  a  cloudlet,  flying,  flying, 
And  I  a  floweret,  dying,  dying, 
My  last  sweet  breath  to  you   I'd  pour, 
And  wither  away  for  evermore. 

For  love  will  give  and  ask  no  guerdon, 
And  love  will  bear  poor  sorrow's  burden, 
And  higher  than  all  clouds  may  soar, 
Love's  glory  abides  for  evermore. 

May  Byron. 


CXL.     Only  We          jfc      Jt>      *      & 

T^VREAM  no  more  that  grief  and  pain 
•-^     Could  such  hearts  as  ours  enchain, 
Safe  from  loss  and  safe  from  gain, 
Free,  as  Love  makes  free. 

When  false  friends  pass  coldly  by, 
Sigh,  in  earnest  pity,  sigh, 
Turning  thine  unclouded  e)'e 
Up  from  them  to  me. 
202 


Hear  not  danger's  trampling  feet, 
Feel  not  sorrow's  wintry  sleet, 
Trust  that  life  is  just  and  meet, 
With  mine  arm  round  thee. 

Lip  on  lip,  and  eye  to  eye, 
Love  to  love,  we  live,  we  die  ; 
No  more  Thou,  and  no  more  I, 
We,  and  only  We  ! 

Lord  Houghton. 

CXLI.     To  Althea,  from   Prison       jk 

TIT" HEN  love,  with  unconfined  wings, 

*  *       Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates  ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair, 

And  fetter'd  to  her  eye— 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  an  hermitage. 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, — 
Angels  alone  that  soar  above 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Richard  Lovelace. 
203 


CXLII.     The  Monopolist    jk      &      &      j 

T  F  I  were  yonder  wave,  my  dear, 
*•     And  thou  the  isle  it  clasps  around, 
I  would  not  let  a  foot  come  near 
My  land  of  bliss,  my  fairy  ground  ! 

If  I  were  yonder  conch  of  gold, 
And  thou  the  pearl  within  it  placed, 

I  would  not  let  an  eye  behold 
The  sacred  gem  my  arms  embraced  ! 

If  I  were  yonder  orange-tree, 
And  thou  the  blossom  blooming  there 

I  would  not  yield  a  breath  of  thee, 
To  scent  the  most  imploring  air ! 

Thomas  Moore. 

CXLII  I.     This  Heart  o'   Mine  jt       <* 

A  LL  my  heart  lies  open  to  the  dew ; 
**•    Who  but  you,  my  dearest,  who  but  you  ? , 
Fall,  O  Dew,  more  sweet  than  honey  and  wine, 
And  fill  with  living  joy  this  heart  o'  mine  ! 

All  my  heart  lies  open  to  the  wind, 
Who  but  you,  that  are  now  cold,  now  kind  ? 
Come,  O  Wind,  with  fragrant  touch  divine, 
And  fill  with  living  breath  this  heart  o'  mine  ! 

All  my  heart  lies  open  to  the  sun  : 
.Who  but  you,  my  dear,  my  only  one  ? 
204 


Shine,  O  Sun,  I  pray  thee,  ever  shine, 
And  fill  with  living  light  this  heart  o'  mine  ! 
Maurice  Clare. 

CXLIV.     The  Summit       j*       jt      jt      jk 

/^VUR  breath  shall  intermix,  our  bosoms  bound, 

^-^     And  our  veins  beat  together  ;   and  our  lips, 

With  other  eloquence  than  words,  eclipse 

The  soul  that  burns  between  them ;  and  the  wells 

Which  boil  under  our  being's  inmost  cells, 

The  fountains  of  our  deepest  life,  shall  be 

Confused  in  passion's  golden  purity, 

As  mountain-springs  under  the  morning  sun. 

We  shall  become  the  same,  we  shall  be  one 

Spirit  within  two  frames,  oh,  wherefore  two? 

One    passion    in    twin    hearts,    which    grows    and 

grew 

Till,  like  two  meteors  of  expanding  flame, 
Those  spheres  instinct  with  it  become  the  same, 
Touch,  mingle,  are  transfigured  ;   ever  still 
Burning,  yet  ever  inconsumable  ; 
In  one  another's  substance  finding  food, 
Light  flames  too  pure  and  light  and  unimbued 
To  nourish  their  bright  lives  with  baser  prey, 
Which  point  to  heaven  and  cannot  pass  away  : 
One  hope  within  two  wills,  one  will  beneath 
Two  overshadowing  minds,  one  life,  one  death, 
One  heaven,  one  hell,  one  immortality, 
And  one  annihilation  ! 

P.  B.  Shelley. 
205 


CXLV.     She  is  Mine          •**"*•, 

/^~\  WHAT  unhoped  for  sweet  supply  ! 
^-^     O  what  joys  exceeding  ! 
What  an  affecting  charm  feel  I, 

From  delight  proceeding  ! 
That  which  I  long  despaired  to  be, 
To  her  I  am,  and  she  to  me. 

She  that  alone  in  cloudy  grief 

Long  to  me  appeared  : 
She  now  alone  with  bright  relief 

All  those  clouds  hath  cleared. 
Both  are  immortal  and  divine  ! 
Since  I  am  hers,  and  she  is  mine. 

Thomas  Campion. 


CXLVI.     I'd   Mourn  the  Hopes         # 

T'D  mourn  the  hopes  that  leave  me, 
•*-     If  thy  smiles  had  left  me  too ; 
I'd  weep  when  friends  deceive  me, 

If  thou  wert,  like  them,  untrue. 
But  while  I've  thee  before  me, 

With  heart  so  warm  and  eyes  so  bright, 
No  clouds  can  linger  o'er  me, 
That  smile  turns  them  all  to  light. 

O,  'tis  not  in  fate  to  harm  me, 
While  fate  leaves  thy  love  to  me  ; 
206 


'Tis  not  in  joy  to  charm  me, 

Unless  joy  be  shared  with  thee. 
One  minute's  dream  about  thee, 

Were  worth  a  long,  an  endless  year, 
Of  waking  bliss  without  thee, 

My  own  love,  my  only  dear  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 

CXLVII.     The  Stewardship        jk      j      jt 

HPHE  silence  of  your  ultimate  thought  is  mine, 

•*-       Beyond  the  depth  that  any  word  can  reach — 
The  sacred  stillness  of  the  inmost  shrine, 

That  never  yet  was  marred  by  mortal  speech. 

And  mine,  the  fires  that  on  the  altar  burn, 
The  altar  of  your  spirit ;  where  the  dense 

Sweet  odours  deepen.     Have  you  yet  to  learn 
Whose  fingers  flung  that  nard  and  frankincense  ? 

And  mine,  the  word  that  never  yet  was  said, 
The  mystic  master-word,  the  key  and  clue 

To  all  you  wish  or  hope  for,  living  or  dead — 
The  very  meaning  of  the  soul  of  you. 

These  are  all  mine — and  mine  I  swear  they  stand — 

Secret,  unsoiled,  in  veils  of  love  I  fold  them, 
Till  God  Himself  shall  claim  them  at  my  hand, 
And  I  shall  yield  them  Him  for   Whom   I   hold 
them. 

M.  C.  Gill  ing/on. 
207 


XIV.     Rosemary  for  Remembrance 

Love  in  Absence 


209 


XIV 

Imogen.   T    DID  not  take  my  leave  of  him,  but  had 
•*•     Most  pretty  things  to  say  .  .  . 
How  I  would  think  of  him,  at  certain  hours, 
Such  thoughts,  and  such  :  or  I  could  .  .  . 

have  charged  him, 
At  the    sixth  hour    of    morn,  at  noon,  at 

midnight, 

To  encounter  me  with  orisons,  for  then 
I  am  in  heaven  for  him. 

William  Shakespeare,  "  Cymbeline." 


CXLVIII.     Alter  Ego         Jt      jt      jt 

\  \  TE  must  not  part,  as  others  do, 

*  *     With  sighs  and  tears  as  we  were  two  ; 
Though  with  these  outward  forms  we  part, 
We  keep  each  other  in  our  heart. 
What  search  hath  found  a  being,  where 
I  am  not,  if  that  thou  be  there  ? 

True  love  hath  wings,  and  can  as  soon 
Survey  the  world,  as  sun  and  moon  ; 
And  everywhere  our  triumphs  keep 
O'er  absence,  which  makes  others  weep  ; 
By  which  alone  a  power  is  given 
To  live  on  earth,  as  they  in  heaven. 

Author  Unknown  (Early  Seventeenth  Century). 
211 


CXLIX.     The  Lonely  Road       jfc      jfc 

T  T  ERE,  ever  since  you  went  abroad, 
•*•-••     If  there  be  change,  no  change  I  see ; 
I  only  walk  our  wonted  road, 
The  road  is  only  walkt  by  me. 

Yes ;  I  forgot ;  a  change  there  is  ; 

Was  it  of  that  you  bade  me  tell  ? 
I  catch  at  times,  at  times  I  miss 

The  sight,  the  tone,  I  know  so  well. 

Only  two  months  since  you  stood  here  1 
Two  shortest  months  !  then  tell  me  why 

Voices  are  harsher  than  they  were, 
And  tears  are  longer  ere  they  dry. 

W.  S.  Landor. 

CL.     In  Three  Days  &      jt      Jk      Jt, 

OO,  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 
^  And  just  one  night,  but  nights  are  short, 
Then  two  long  hours,  and  that  is  morn. 
See  how  I  come,  unchanged,  unworn  ! 
Feel,  where  my  life  broke  off  from  thine, 
How  fresh  the  splinters  keep  and  fine, — 
Only  a  touch  and  we  combine ! 

Too  long,  this  time  of  year,  the  days  ! 
But  nights,  at  least  the  nights  are  short. 
As  night  shows  where  her  one  moon  is, 
212 


A  hand's-breadth  of  pure  light  and  bliss, 
So  life's  night  gives  my  lady  birth 
And  my  eyes  hold  her  !     What  is  worth 
The  rest  of  heaven,  the  rest  of  earth  ? 

O  loaded  curls,  release  your  store 
Of  warmth  and  scent,  as  once  before 
The  tingling  hair  did,  lights  and  darks 
Outbreaking  into  fairy  sparks, 
When  under  curl  and  curl  I  pried 
After  the  warmth  and  scent  inside, 
Thro'  lights  and  darks  how  manifold — 
The  dark  inspired,  the  light  controlled  ! 
As  early  Art  embrowns  the  gold. 

What  great  fear,  should  one  say,  "Three  days 

"  That  change  the  world  might  change  as  well 

"  Your  fortune  ;  and  if  joy  delays, 

"  Be  happy  that  no  worse  befell ! " 

What  small  fear,  if  another  says, 

"  Three  days  and  one  short  night  beside 

"  May  throw  no  shadow  on  your  ways  ; 

"  But  years  must  teem  with  change  untried, 

"  With  chance  not  easily  defied, 

"  With  an  end  somewhere  undescried." 

No  fear  ! — or  if  a  fear  be  born 

This  minute,  it  dies  out  in  scorn. 

Fear  ?  I  shall  see  her  in  three  days 

And  one  night,  now  the  nights  are  short, 

Then  just  two  hours,  and  that  is  morn. 

Robert  Browning. 


CLI.     You  and  the  Spring          jfc      jfc      j» 

T^ROM  you  have  I  been  absent  in  the  spring, 
-^      When  proud-pied  April,  dress'd  in  all  his  trim, 
Hath  put  a  spirit  of  youth  in  every  thing, 
That  heavy  Saturn  laugh'd  and  leap'd  with  him. 
Yet  nor  the  lays  of  birds  nor  the  sweet  smell 
Of  different  flowers  in  odour  and  in  hue 
Could  make  me  any  summer's  story  tell, 
Or  from  their  proud  lap   pluck   them   where  they 

grew; 

Nor  did  I  wonder  at  the  lily's  white, 
Nor  praise  the  deep  vermilion  in  the  rose  ; 
They  were  but  sweet,  but  figures  of  delight, 
Drawn  after  you,  you  pattern  of  all  those. 
Yet  seem'd  it  winter  still,  and,  you  away, 
As  with  your  shadow  I  with  these  did  play. 
William  Shakespeare. 


CLI  I.     Wandering  Willie    jt      jt      Jt,      Jt 

HERE  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 
Here  awa,  there  awa,  haud  awa  hame ; 
Come  to  my  bosom,  my  ae  only  dearie, 

And  tell  me  thou  bring' st  me  my  Willie  the  same. 

Loud  tho'  the  Winter  blew  cauld  at  our  parting, 
'Twas  na  the  blast  brought  the  tear  in  my  e'e : 

Welcome  now  Simmer,  and  welcome  my  Willie, 
The  Simmer  to  Nature,  my  Willie  to  me  ! 
214 


Rest,  ye  wild  storms  in  the  cave  o'  your  slumbers — 
How  your  wild  howling  a  lover  alarms  ! 

Wauken,  ye  breezes,  row  gently,  ye  billows, 
And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my  arms. 

But  O,  if  he's  faithless,  and  minds  na  his  Nannie, 
Flow  still  between  us,  thou  wide-roaring  main  ! 

May  I  never  see  it,  may  I  never  trow  it, 
But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie's  my  ain  ! 
Robert  Burns. 


CLIII.     Memory  jfc      &      £      Jt      <£ 

00  shuts  the  marigold  her  leaves 
^     At  the  departure  of  the  sun ; 
So  from  the  honeysuckle  sheaves 

The  bee  goes  when  the  day  is  done  ; 
So  sits  the  turtle  when  she  is  but  one, 
And  so  all  woe,  as  I  since  she  is  gone. 

To  some  few  birds  kind  Nature  hath 
Made  all  the  summer  as  one  day  : 

Which  once  enjoyed,  cold  winter's  wrath 
As  night  they  sleeping  pass  away. 

Those  happy  creatures  are,  they  know  not  yet 

The  pain  to  be  deprived,  or  to  forget. 

1  oft  have  heard  men  say  there  be 
Some  that  with  confidence  profess 

The  helpful  Art  of  Memory  : 
215 


But  could  they  teach  forgetfulness, 
I'd  learn,  and  try  what  further  art  could  do 
To  make  me  love  her,  and  forget  her  too. 

Sad  melancholy  that  persuades 

Men  from  themselves,  to  think  they  be 

Headless,  or  other  body's  shades, 

Hath  long  and  bootless  dwelt  with  me. 

For  could  I  think  she  some  idea  were, 

I  still  might  love,  forget,  and  have  her  here. 
William  Browne. 

CLIV.     The  Anxious  Lover       jk      <£      Jk 

~T)E  your  words  made,  good  Sir,  of  Indian  ware, 

•^  That  you  allow  me  them  by  so  small  rate 

Or  do  you  curted  Spartans  imitate  ? 

Or  do  you  mean  my  tender  ears  to  spare, 

That  to  my  questions  you  so  total  are  ? 

When  I  demand  of  Phoenix-Stella's  state, 

You  say,  forsooth,  you  left  her  well  of  late : 

0  God,  think  you  that  satisfies  my  care  ? 

1  would  know  whether  she  did  sit  or  walk; 
How    clothed ;    how    waited    on ;    sighed    she,    or 

smiled  ; 

Whereof, — with  whom,— how  often  did  she  talk  ; 
With  what  pastimes  Time's  journey  she  beguiled  ; 
If  her  lips  deigned  to  sweeten  my  poor  name  : 
Say  all ;  and  all  well  said,  still  say  the  same. 
Sir  Philip  Sidney. 
216     • 


CLV.     Love  in  Absence     Jt- 


while  the  sweet  Spring  stays,  O  come! 
^—  '  Come  ere  the  nightingale  be  dumb  ; 
While  on  her  eggs  his  mate  doth  sit, 
And  all  the  chestnut  lamps  are  lit. 

Come  ere  the  baby  leaves  grow  old, 
Crumpled  and  soft,  these  keep  the  fold 
Of  tight  enswathed  buds,  O  come  ! 
While  yet  the  swallow  is  new  to  home. 

Come  while  our  orchard  like  a  bride, 
Blushes  through  white,  and  evening-tide 
Hangs  all  the  pear-tree  with  such  white 
Spun  from  the  moon-rays  for  delight. 

Come  while  the  yellow  moon  still  shows, 
A  moon  of  honey,  a  golden  rose. 
And  while  all  night  in  rapt  content 
Our  garden  of  Eden  spills  its  scent. 

Come,  ere  the  cuckoo's  song  is  over, 
Come  in  the  day  of  every  lover, 
When  every  lover  still  wings  for  home  ; 
Come,  ere  the  nightingale  be  dumb. 

Katharine  Tynan. 


lite  Garden  of  Love. 


217 


CLVI.     Absence  j*      jt      j*      jt      jt 

WITH  leaden  foot  Time  creeps  along 
While  Delia  is  away ; 
With  her,  nor  plaintive  was  the  song, 
Nor  tedious  was  the  day. 

Ah  !  envious  power  !  reverse  my  doom, 

Nor  double  thy  career ; 
Strain  every  nerve,  stretch  every  plume, 

And  rest  them  when  she's  here. 

Richard  Jago. 

CLVI  I.     Separation     jt      £,      jk      Jt      Jk 

'~T~*HERE  is  a  mountain  and  a  wood  between  us, 
•*-    Where  the  lone  shepherd  and  late  bird  have 

seen  us 

Morning  and  noon  and  eventide  repass. 
Between  us  now  the  mountain  and  the  wood 
Seem  standing  darker  than  last  year  they  stood, 
And  say  we  must  not  cross,  alas  !  alas  ! 

W.  S.  Landor. 

CLVIII.     If  Jk      *      *       Jt       ofc       jt 

T  F  I  had  but  two  little  wings, 
•*•  And  were  a  little  feathery  bird, 

To  you  I'd  fly,  my  dear ! 
But  thoughts  like  these  are  idle  things, 

And  I  stay  here. 
218 


But  in  my  sleep  to  you  I  fly  ; 
I'm  always  with  you  in  my  sleep, 

The  world  is  all  one's  own. 
But  then  one  wakes,  and  where  am  I  ? 
All,  all  alone. 

Sleep  stays  not,  though  a  monarch  bids  ; 
So  I  love  to  wake  ere  break  of  day  : 

For  though  my  sleep  be  gone, 
Yet  while  'tis  dark,  one  shuts  one's  lids, 
And  still  dreams  on. 

S.  r.  Coleridge. 


CLIX.     Remembrance          jft      j*      .*      jfc 

\1  /"  HEN  to  the  sessions  of  sweet  silent  thought 
*  *       I  summon  up  remembrance  of  things  past, 
I  sigh  the  lack  of  many  a  thing  I  sought, 
And  with  old  woes  new  wail  my  dear  time's  waste  ; 
Then  can  I  drown  an  eye,  unused  to  flow, 
For  precious  friends  hid  in  death's  dateless  night, 
And  weep  afresh  love's  long  since  cancell'd  woe, 
And  moan  the  expense  of  many  a  vanish'd  sight  : 
Then  can   I  grieve  at  grievances  forgone, 
And  heavily  from  woe  to  woe  tell  o'er 
The  sad  account  of  fore-bemoaned  moan, 
Which  I  new  pay  as  if  not  paid  before. 

But  if  the  while  I  think  on  thee,  dear  friend, 
All  losses  are  restored  and  sorrows  end. 

William  Shakespeare. 
219 


XV.      Rue  and  Thyme  and  other  Bitter 
Herbs 

Love  Reproachful  and  Cynical 


XV 


r~pHE  sun  of  love  has  set.  We  sit  in  the  dark — 
-*•  I  mean  you  and  Corydon,  good  Madam,  or  I 
and  Amaryllis — uncomfortably,  with  nothing  more 
to  say  to  each  other.  .  .  .  Ah  !  daggers,  ropes,  and 
poisons,  has  it  come  to  this  ? 

W.  M.  Thackeray,  "Adventures  of  Philip." 


_-_•. i_Li*- rij*tL I  .'U.    f  .'  1  -      — *— 


CLX.     The  Pilgrimage        &      jt      Jt 

AS  you  came  from  the  holy  land 
Of  Walsinghame, 
Met  you  not  with  my  true  love 
By  the  way  as  you  came  ? 

How  shall  I  know  your  true  love, 

That  have  met  many  one, 
As  I  went  to  the  holy  land, 

That  have  come,  that  have  gone  ? 

She  is  neither  white  nor  brown, 

But  as  the  heavens  fair  ; 
There  is  none  hath  a  form  so  divine 

In  the  earth  or  the  air. 

Such  a  one  did  I  meet,  good  sir, 

Such  an  angelic  face, 
Who  like  a  queen,  like  a  nymph,  did  appear 

By  her  gait,  by  her  grace. 

223 


She  hath  left  me  here  all  alone, 

All  alone,  as  unknown, 
Who  sometimes  did  me  leave  with  herself 

And  me  loved  as  her  own. 

What's  the  cause  that  she  leaves  you  alone, 

And  a  new  way  doth  take, 
Who  loved  you  once  as  her  own, 

And  her  joy  did  you  make  ? 

I  have  loved  her  all  my  youth, 

But  now  old,  as  you  see  : 
Love  likes  not  the  falling  fruit 

From  the  withered  tree. 

Know  that  Love  is  a  careless  child, 

And  forgets  promise  past, 
He  is  blind,  he  is  deaf  when  he  list, 

And  in  faith  never  fast. 

His  desire  is  a  dureless  content, 

And  a  trustless  joy ; 
He  is  won  with  a  world  of  despair, 

And  is  lost  with  a  toy. 

But  true  love  is  a  durable  fire, 

In  the  mind  ever  burning, 
Never  sick,  never  old,  never  dead, 
From  itself  never  turning. 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh. 
2*4 


CLXI.     The  Triumph          j»      &      J      J> 

\\  THEN    thou    must  home  to  shades  of   under- 

*  *      ground, 

And  there  arrived,  a  new  admired  guest, 
The  beauteous  spirits  do  engirt  thee  round, 
White  lope,  blithe  Helen,  and  the  rest, 
To  hear  the  stories  of  thy  finished  love 
From   that  smooth   tongue   whose   music   hell  can 
move  ; 

Then  wilt  thou  speak  of  banqueting  delights, 
Of  masques  and  revels   which   sweet  youth   did 

make, 

Of  tourneys  and  great  challenges  of  knights, 
And  all  these  triumphs  for  thy  beauty's  sake  : 
When  thou  hast  told  these  honours  done  to  thee, 
Then  tell,  O  tell,  how  thou  didst  murder  me. 

Thomas  Campion. 

CLXI  I.     The  Mournful  Moon    Jk      Jt      Jt, 

WITH  how  sad  steps,  O  Moon,  thou  climb'st 
the  skies  ! 

How  silently,  and  with  how  wan  a  face  ! 
What,  may  it  be  that  even  in  heavenly  place 
That  busy  archer  his  sharp  arrows  tries  ? 
Sure,  if  that  long-with-love-acquainted  eyes 
Can  judge  of  love,  thou  feel'st  a  lover's  case, 
I  read  it  in  thy  looks ;  thy  languisht  grace, 
225 


To  me,  that  feel  the  like,  thy  state  descries. 
Then,  even  of  fellowship,  O  Moon,  tell  me, 
Is  constant  love  deem'd  there  but  want  of  wit? 
Are  beauties  there  as  proud  as  here  they  be  ? 
Do  they  above  love  to  be  lov'd,  and  yet 

Those  lovers  scorn  whom  that  love  doth  possess  ? 

Do  they  call  virtue  there,  ungratefulness? 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 


CLXIII.     Change  upon  Change          Jt> 

TTMVE  months  ago,  the  stream  did  flow, 
•1      The  lilies  bloomed  along  the  edge ; 
And  we  were  lingering  to  and  fro, 
Where  none  will  track  thee  in  this  snow, 
Along  the  stream,  beside  the  hedge. 
Ah,  sweet,  be  free  to  love  and  go  ! 
For  if  I  do  not  hear  thy  foot, 
The  frozen  river  is  as  mute, — 
The  flowers  have  died  down  to  the  root ; 
And  why,  since  these  be  changed  since  May, 
Shouldst  thou  change  less  than  they  ? 

And  slow,  slow,  as  the  winter  snow, 

The  tears  have  drifted  to  mine  eyes  : 

And  my  poor  cheeks,  five  months  ago 

Set  blushing  at  thy  praises  so, 

Put  paleness  on  for  a  disguise. 

Ah,  sweet,  be  free  to  praise  and  go  ! 
226 


For  if  my  face  is  turned  to  pale. 
It  was  thine  oath  that  first  did  fail, — 
It  was  thy  love  proved  false  and  frail  ! 
And  why,  since  these  be  changed  enow, 
Should  /  change  less  than  thou  ? 

E.  B.  Browning. 

CLXIV.     Kind  are  her  Answers        Jt 

KIND  are  her  answers, 
But  her  performance  keeps  no  day  ; 
Breaks  time,  as  dancers 
From  their  own  music  when  they  stray. 
All  her  free  favours  and  smooth  words 

Wing  my  hopes  in  vain. 
O  did  ever  voice  so  sweet  but  only  feign  ? 
Can  true  love  yield  such  delay, 
Converting  joy  to  pain  ? 

Lost  is  our  freedom, 

When  we  submit  to  women  so  : 

Why  do  we  need  them, 
When  in  their  best  they  work  our  woe  ? 

There  is  no  wisdom 

Can  alter  ends,  by  Fate  prefixed. 
O  why  is  the  good  of  man  with  evil  mixed  ? 

Never  were  days  yet  called  two 

But  one  night  went  betwixt. 

Thomas  Campion. 


227 


CLXV.     Perjury  Excused  <£      j*       £>      J> 

T^ID  not  the  heavenly  rhetoric  of  thine  eye, 
*~*  'Gainst   whom   the   world   cannot   hold  argu- 
ment, 

Persuade  my  heart  to  this  false  perjury  ? 
Vows  for  thee  broke  deserve  not  punishment. 
A  woman  I  forswore  ;  but  I  will  prove, 
Thou  being  a  goddess,  I  forswore  not  thee  : 
My  vow  was  earthly,  thou  a  heavenly  love  ; 
Thy  grace  being  gained  cures  all  disgrace  in  me. 
Vows  are  but  breath,  and  breath  a  vapour  is  : 
Then    thou,   fair    sun,    which    on    my    earth    dost 

shine, 

Exhalest  this  vapour-vow ;  in  thee  it  is : 
If  broken  then,  it  is  no  fault  of  mine  : 

If  by  me  broke,  what  fool  is  not  so  wise 
To  lose  an  oath  to  win  a  paradise  ? 

William  Shakespeare. 

CLXVI.     The  Eternal  Feminine       J       jt 

rT'O  fix  her — 'twere  a  task  as  vain 
-*•      To  count  the  April  drops  of  rain, 
To  sow  in  Afric's  barren  soil, 
Or  tempests  hold  within  a  toil. 

I  know  it,  friend,  she's  light  as  air, 
False  as  the  fowler's  artful  snare  ; 
Inconstant  as  the  passing  wind, 
As  winter's  dreary  frost  unkind. 
228 


She's  such  a  miser  too  in  love, 
Its  joys  she'll  neither  share  nor  prove  ; 
Though  hundreds  of  gallants  await 
From  her  victorious  eyes  their  fate. 

Blushing  at  such  inglorious  reign, 
I  sometimes  strive  to  break  her  chain ; 
My  reason  summon  to  my  aid, 
Rosolve  no  more  to  be  betrayed. 

Ah  !  friend,  'tis  but  a  short-lived  trance, 
Dispell'd  by  one  enchanting  glance  ; 
She  need  but  look,  and  I  confess 
Those  looks  completely  curse  or  bless. 

So  soft,  so  elegant,  so  fair, 
Sure  something  more  than  human's  there  ; 
I  must  submit,  for  strife  is  vain, 
'Twas  destiny  that  forged  the  chain. 

Tobias  Smollett. 


CLXVII.     A  Dirge     jt      &      &      &      & 

"D  ING   out   your    bells,  let   mourning  shews    be 
**-^-        spread ; 
For  Love  is  dead  : 

All  Love  is  dead,  infected 
With  plague  of  deep  disdain  : 

Worth,  as  nought  worth,  rejected, 
And  Faith  fair  scorn  doth  gain. 
229 


From  so  ungrateful  fancy, 
From  such  a  female  frenzy, 
From  them  that  use  men  thus, 
Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 

Weep,  neighbours,  weep  ;   do  you  not  hear  it  I  said 
That  Love  is  dead  ? 

His  death-bed,  peacock's  folly  ; 
His  winding-sheet  is  shame  ; 

His  will,  false-seeming  wholly  ; 
His  sole  executor,  blame. 

From  so  ungrateful  fancy, 

From  such  a  female  frenzy, 

From  them  that  use  men  thus, 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 

Let  dirge  be  sung,  and  trentals  rightly  read, 
For  Love  is  dead  ; 

Sir  Wrong  his  tomb  ordaineth 
His  mistress"  marble  heart ; 

Which  epitaph  containeth, 
"  Her  eyes  were  once  his  dart." 

From  so  ungrateful  fancy, 

From  such  a  female  frenzy, 

From  them  that  use  men  thus, 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 

Alas !  I  lie :  rage  hath  this  error  bred  ; 
Love  is  not  dead  ; 

Love  is  not  dead,  but  sleepeth 
230 


In  her  unmatched  mind, 

Where  she  his  counsel  keepeth, 
Till  due  deserts  she  find. 

Therefore  from  so  vile  fancy, 

To  call  such  wit  a  frenzy, 

Who  Love  can  temper  thus, 

Good  Lord,  deliver  us  ! 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

CLXVIII.     Where    did    you    Borrow    that 
Last  Sigh       ^      &      £•      &      j*      £• 

\  I  THERE  did -you  borrow  that  last  sigh, 
V  *       And  that  relenting  groan  ? 
For  those  that  sigh,  and  not  for  love, 

Usurp  what's  not  their  own. 
Love's  arrows  sooner  armour  pierce 

Than  your  soft  snowy  skin  ; 
Your  eyes  can  only  teach  us  love, 
But  cannot  take  it  in. 

Sir  William  Berkeley. 

CLXIX.     Love  Disposed  of       j»      j*      & 

T  T  ERE  goes  Love!  Now  cut  him  clear, 
*•  •*     A  weight  about  his  neck  : 
If  he  linger  longer  here, 

Our  ship  will  be  a  wreck. 
Overboard  !  Overboard  ! 

Down  let  him  go  ! 
23  T 


In  the  deep  he  may  sleep, 
Where  the  corals  grow. 

He  said  he'd  woo  the  gentle  breeze, 

A  bright  tear  in  her  eye  : 
But  she  was  false  and  hard  to  please, 

Or  he  has  told  a  lie. 
Overboard  !  Overboard  ! 

Down  in  the  sea 
He  may  find  a  truer  mind 

Where  the  mermaids  be. 

He  sang  us  many  a  merry  song 

While  the  breeze  was  kind  : 
But  he  has  been  lamenting  long 

The  falseness  of  the  wind. 
Overboard  !  overboard  ! 

Under  the  wave 
Let  him  sing  where  smooth  shells  ring 

In  the  ocean's  cave  ! 

He  may  struggle  ;  he  may  weep ; 

We'll  be  stern  and  cold  ; 
His  grief  will  find,  within  the  deep, 

More  tears  than  can  be  told. 
He  has  gone  overboard  ! 

We  will  float  on  ; 
We  shall  find  a  truer  wind 

Now  that  he  is  gone. 

T.  L.  Beddoes. 
232 


CLXX.     To  Cloe         Jt,      jt      j,      ^      , 

Imitated  from  Martial 

T   COULD  resign  that  eye  of  blue, 

Howe'er  it  burn,  howe'er  it  thrill  me  : 
And  though  your  lip  be  rich  with  dew, 
To  lose  it,  Cloe,  scarce  would  kill  me. 

That  snowy  neck  I  ne'er  should  miss, 
However  warm  I've  twined  about  it ; 

And  though  your  bosom  beat  with  bliss, 
I  think  my  soul  could  live  without  it. 

In  short,  I've  learned  so  well  to  fast, 

That,  sooth,  my  love,  I  know  not  whether 

I  might  not  bring  myself  at  last, 
To — do  without  you  altogether  ! 

Thomas  Moore.. 

CLXXI.     I  was  in  Love    Jt      &      jt 


/^\NCE  did  my  thoughts  both  ebb  and  flow, 
^-^     As  passion  did  them  move, 
Once  did  I  hope,  straight  fear  again, — 
And  then  I  was  in  love. 

Once  did  I  waking  spend  the  night, 
And  tell  how  many  minutes  move, 

Once  did  I  wishing  waste  the  day, — 
And  then  I  was  in  love. 
233 


Once,  by  my  carving  true-love' s-knot, 

The  weeping  trees  did  prove 
That  wounds  and  tears  were  both  our  lot, — 

And  then  I  was  in  love. 

Once  did  I  breathe  another's  breath, 

And  in  my  mistress  move, 
Once  was  I  not  mine  own  at  all, — 

And  then  I  was  in  love. 

Once  wore  I  bracelets  made  of  hair, 

And  collars  did  approve, 
Once  wore  my  clothes  made  out  of  wax, — 

And  then  I  was  in  love. 

Once  did  I  sonnet  to  my  saint, 

My  soul  in  numbers  move, 
Once  did  I  tell  a  thousand  lies, — 

And  then  I  was  in  love. 

Once  in  my  ear  did  dangling  hang 

A  little  turtle-dove, 
Once,  in  a  word,  I  was  a  fool, — 

And  then  I  was  in  love. 

Robert  Jones, 


234 


CLXXII.     What  Care  I  ?   Jk      J> 

OH  ALL  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
^     Die  because  a  woman's  fair? 
Or  my  cheeks  make  pale  with  care, 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are  ? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 
Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May, 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ? 


Shall  my  foolish  heart  be  pined 
'Cause  I  see  a  woman  kind ; 
Or  a  well-disposed  nature 
Joined  with  a  lovely  feature? 
Be  she  meeker,  kinder,  than 
Turtle-dove  or  pelican, 

If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 

What  care  I  how  kind  she  be  ? 


Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or  her  merit's  value  known, 
Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own  ? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  gain  her  name  of  Best ; 
If  she  seem  not  such  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  good  she  be? 
235 


'Cause  her  fortune  seems  too  high, 
Shall  I  play  the  fool  and  die  ? 
Those  that  bear  a  noble  mind, 
Where  they  want,  of  riches  find, 
Think  what  with  them  they  would  do 
Who  without  them  dare  to  woo: 
And  unless  that  mind  I  see, 
What  care  I  tho'  great  she  be  ? 

Great  or  good,  or  kind  or  fair, 
will  ne'er  the  more  despair ; 
If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve ; 
If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 
I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go ; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 
What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? 

George  Withei. 

CLXXIII.     When  I  Loved  You        Jt,      , 

AT  T HEN  I  loved  you,  I  can't  but  allow 
*  *       I  had  many  an  exquisite  minute  ; 
But  the  scorn  that  I  feel  for  you  now 
Hath  even  more  luxury  in  it  ! 

Thus,  whether  we're  on  or  we're  off, 
Some  witchery  seems  to  await  you ; 
To  love  you  is  pleasant  enough, 
But  oh  !   'tis  delicious  to  hate  you  ! 

Thomas  Moore. 
236 


CLXXIV.     The  Prediction 


boy,  'tis  full  moon  yet,  thy  night  as  day 
shines  clearly  ; 
Had   thy  youth   but  wit  to  fear,   thou  couldst  not 

love  so  dearly. 
Shortly   wilt  thou    mourn,   when   all  thy   pleasures 

are  bereaved  ; 

Little    knows    lie    how    to    love    that    never    was 
deceived. 


This   is  thy  first   maiden   flame,  that  triumphs  yet 

unstained  ; 
All  is   artless  now   you  speak,  not   one  word,  yet, 

is  feigned  ; 
All  is  heaven  that  you  behold,  and  all  your  thoughts 

are  blessed  ; 
But    no    spring    can  want    his   fall  ;   each   Troilus 

hath  his  Cressid  ! 


Thy  well-ordered  locks  ere  long  shall  rudely  hang 

neglected  ; 
And  thy  lively  pleasant  cheer  read  grief  on  earth 

dejected. 
Much  then  wilt  thou  blame   thy  Saint,  that   made 

thy  heart  so  holy, 
And    with   sighs   confess,   in   love,   that    too   much 

faith  is  folly. 

237 


Yet  be  just  and  constant  still !    Love  may  beget 

a  wonder ; 
Not  unlike    a    summer's    frost,   or    winter's    fatal 

thunder. 
He   that   holds  his   sweetheart   true,  unto  his  day 

of  dying, 
Lives,  of  all  that  ever  breathed,  most  worthy  the 

envying. 

Thomas  Campion. 


XVI.     Poppies 

Dreams 


239 


XVI 

OURELY  this  is  it  we  call  happiness,  and  this 
**•'  do  I  enjoy;  with  him  I  am  happy  in  a  dream, 
and  as  content  to  enjoy  a  happiness  in  a  fancy,  as 
others  in  a  more  apparent  truth  and  reality.  There 
is  surely  a  nearer  apprehension  of  anything  that 
delights  us,  in  our  dreams  than  in  our  waked  senses. 
Without  this  I  were  unhappy;  for  my  awaked  judg- 
ment discontents  me,  ever  whispering  unto  me  that 
I  am  from  my  friend  ;  but  my  friendly  dreams  in 
the  night  requite  me,  and  make  me  think  I  am 
within  his  arms.  I  thank  God  for  my  happy 
dreams. 

Sir  Thomas  Browne,  "  Rcligio  Medici." 


& 


CLXXV.     Longing      jft 


Jt      Jk 


to  me  in  my  dreams,  and  then 
^  —     By  day  I  shall  be  well  again. 
For  then  the  night  will  more  than  pay 
The  hopeless  longing  of  the  day. 

Come,  as  thou  cam'st  a  thousand  times, 
A  messenger  from  radiant  climes, 
And  smile  on  thy  new  world,  and  be 
As  kind  -to  others  as  to  me. 

Or,  as  thou  never  cam'st  in  sooth, 
Come  now,  and  let  me  dream  it  truth. 
And  "part  my  hair,  and  kiss  my  brow, 
And  say  —  My  love  !  why  sufferest  thou  ? 

Come  to  me  in  my  dreams,  and  then 
By  day  I  shall  be  well  again. 
For  then  the  night  will  more  than  pay 
The  hopeless  longing  of  the  day. 

Matthew  Arnold. 

Tlie  Garden  of  Lore.  241  L 


CLXXVI.     The  House  of  Love 

TN  my  dreams  a-journeying  far, 
-•-     With  moonless  skies  above, 
Methought  I  saw  a  single  star 

Above  the  House  of  Love  : 
Briars  and  thorns  about  the  door, 

And  rust  upon  the  key, 
And  long-dead  roses  on  the  floor, 

That  rustled  under  me. 


Darkness  deep  in  every  room, 

I  felt  a  touch  divine — 
I  clasped  a  hand  in  the  haunted  gloom, — 

O  Heart  of  hearts  !  'twas  thine, 
Close,  ah  close,  our  arms  enwound, 

And  fast  our  kisses  fell, 
For  we  the  House  of  Love  had  found, 

Where  all  his  dreamers  dwell. 


There  was  no  chain  the  world  can  weld 

Could  bind  us  twain  apart : 
Thy  honey  lips,  so  long  withheld, 

Poured  life  into  my  heart  .  .  . 
Then  I  woke — forlorn,  alone, 

With  ruthless  morn  above  ; 
Only  in  dreams  shall  ways  unknown 

Lead  to  the  House  of  Love. 

Marston  Moore. 
242 


CLXXVII.     The  Traveller's  Dreams         jfc 

OOME  say,  when  nights  are  dry  and  clear, 
^     And  the  death-dews  sleep  on  the  morass, 
Sweet  whispers  are  heard  by  the  traveller, 

Which  make  night  day  : 

And  a  silver  shape  like  his  early  love  doth  pass 
Upborne  by  her  wild  and  glittering  hair, 
And  when  he  awakes  on  the  fragrant  grass, 
He  finds  night  day. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 


CLXXVII  I.     The  Turret    J      jt      jk      & 

HPHERE  is  a  little  turret  roofed  with  gold, 
*-      A  corner  of  my  castle  in  the  air  ; 
And  often,  when  the  wintry  world's  a-cold, 

I  climb  and  taste  eternal  summer  there  : 
For  roses  thro'  the  lattice  laugh  and  lean, 

And  all  the  ceiling  is  of  tender  blue — 
The  walls  are  leaves,  the  floor  is  mossy-green — 

And  in  the  happy  twilight,  there  are  you  ! 

There  is  a  little  turret  veiled  in  mist, 

And  tapestried  with  dreams  of  days  gone  by, 
Where  in  the  silence  we  have  clasped  and  kissed, 

And  none  might  blame,  nor  hinder,  nor  deny. 
243 


How  did  you  find  the  hidden  postern  gate, 

That  lets  you  through  upon  the  secret  stair  ? 

For  never  yet  have  I  had  need  to  wait — 

Before  the  door  is  opened,  you  are  there. 

There  is  a  little  turret  lapt  in  fire, 

And  wrapt  about  with  red  of  living  flame, 
Where,  at  the  pinnacle  of  heart's  desire, 

Breathless   we  two   have    named   each   other's 

name. 
And  [then  it  crashes,  crumbling — then  the  dust 

And  smoke  are  dim  above  its  ruins  bare  .  . 
I  build  it  up  again — I  can— I  must  ! — 

Come  back  unto  our  castle  in  the  air  ! 

May  Byron. 


CLXXIX.     Dream-Love     Jt      Jt 

"\7OUNG  Love  lies  sleeping 
•*•      In  May-time  of  the  year, 
Among  the  lilies, 

Lapped  in  the  tender  light  : 
White  lambs  come  grazing, 

White  doves  come  building  there 
And  round  about  him 
The  May-bushes  are  white. 
244 


Soft  moss  the  pillow 

For  oh,  a  softer  cheek  ; 
Broad  leaves  cast  shadow 

Upon  the  heavy  eyes  : 
There  winds  and   waters 

Grow  lulled  and  scarcely  speak 
There  twilight  lingers 

The  longest  in  the  skies. 


Young  Love  lies  dreaming  ; 

But  who  shall  tell  the  dream  ? 
A  perfect  sunlight 

On  rustling  forest  tips  ; 
Or  perfect  moonlight 

Upon  a  rippling  stream  ; 
Or  perfect  silence, 

Or  song  of  cherished  lips. 


Burn  odours  round  him 

To  fill  the  drowsy  air; 
Weave  silent  dances 

Around  him  to  and  fro  ; 
For  oh,  in  waking 

The  sights  are  not  so  fair, 
And  song  and  silence 

Are  not  like  these  below. 
245 


Young  Love  lies  dreaming 

Till  summer  days  are  gone,- 
Dreaming  and  drowsing 

Away  to  perfect  sleep  : 
He  sees  the  beauty 

Sun  hath  not  looked  upon, 
And  tastes  the  fountain 

Unutterably  deep. 


Him  perfect  music 

Doth  hush  unto  his  rest, 
And  through  the  pauses 

The  perfect  silence  calms  : 
Oh,  poor  the  voices 

Of  earth  from  east  to  west, 
And  poor  earth's  stillness 

Between  her  stately  palms  ! 


Young  Love  lies  drowsing 

Away  to  poppied  death ; 
Cool  shadows  deepen 

Across  the  sleeping  face  : 
So  fails  the  summer 

With  warm  delicious  breath 
And  what  hath  autumn 

To  give  us  in  its  place  ? 
246 


Draw  close  the  curtain 

Of  branched  evergreen  ; 
Change  cannot  touch  them 

With  fading  fingers  sere  : 
Here  the  first  violets 

Perhaps  will  bud  unseen, 
And  a  dove,  maybe, 

Return  to  nestle  here. 

Christina  Rossetti. 


CLXXX.     The  One  Dream        &      j,      , 

TT  often  comes  into  my  head, 

-*•     That  we  may  dream  when  we  are  dead, 

But  I  am  far  from  sure  we  do. 
O  that  it  were  so  !  then  my  rest 
Would  be  indeed  among  the  blest ; 

I  should  for  ever  dream  of  you. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


CLXXXI.     Reincarnation    Jt      jk      jt      jk 

IN  lonely  ways  of  dim  forgotten  lands, 
Ah,  do  you  not  recall  how  once  we  went  ? 
Did  we  not  gaze,  and  hold  each  other's  hands, 

In  utter  ecstasy  of  sheer  content  ? 
As  for  what  we  said — we  said  but  nothing  : 
The  naked  truth  was  ours,  that  needs  no  clothing. 
247 


Strange    flowers    were   near    us  —  nameless    to  me 

now — 
And    strange    old     cities— were    they    quick    or 

dead  ?— 

We  met — we  two — the  when  or  why  or  how- 
Matters  no  more.     That  golden  hour  is  fled, 
But  ineffaceable  its  glory  lingers, 
As  melodies  survive  their  primal  singers. 

And  you — the  moment  eyes  encountered  eyes, 
Yours    were    alight    with     memories    and     with 
dreams. 

You  are  mine,  all  mine  :  you  know  it.     O,  be  wise, 
Ere  over  all  our  Past  our  Present  streams, 

And  snaps  our  secret  chains  of  joy  and  wonder, 

And  whelms,  and  whirls  us,  impotent,  asunder. 

Listen  ...  In  visions  I  will  come  to-night, 
And  seek  with  you  those  old  mysterious  lands, 

And  we  shall  see  in  the  grey  uncertain  light, — 
Do  you  remember  ? — where  the  temple  stands, 

The  desolate  temple  of  some  faith  unknown, 

The  sunset  fading  on  its  solemn  stone. 

And  we  will  never  leave  those  lands  again, 

But  all  that  should  have  been  for  us,  shall  be  : 
Reality  foregone,  dreams  shall  remain, 

And  sweet  oblivion  cover  you  and  me. 
Dare  all,  renounce  all — come  !  ...  I  do  not  doubt 

you — 
I  who  have  waited  centuries  without  you. 

Maurice  Clare. 
248 


CLXXXII.     In  a  Dream     jfc      jfc      Jt      Jk 

T  N  a  dream,  in  the  dusk,  in  the  hush  of  night, 
-*-     When  in  sombre  skies  were  no  stars  in  sight, 
When  the  odorous  garden  shades  were  fill'd 
With  subtle  scents  from  the  rose  distill'd, 
The  rose  that  lifted  its  orbs  of  white 
Round  my  lattice  to  left  and  right, — 
A  wonder  came  from  the  cloudy  height, 
The  fairest  vision  that  hope  might  build 
In  a  dream. 

Too  short  was  its  stay,  too  swift  its  flight, 
But  I  cling  to  it  still  in  the  truth's  despite, 
With  its  splendid  lie  is  my  soul  yet  thrill'd, 
For   it   might   have   been    so,    if    the    fates    had 

will'd,— 

You  clasp'd  me,  you  kiss'd  me,  O  heart's  delight  ! — 
In  a  dream. 

M,  C.  Gillington. 


CLXXXII  I.     Echo       jfc       Jt       Jk       Jt,       Jk 

/~"*OME  to  me  in  the  silence  of  the  night ; 
^~'     Come  in  the  speaking  silence  of  a  dream  ; 
Come  with  soft  rounded  cheeks  and  eyes  as  bright 
As  sunlight  on  a  stream  ; 

Come  back  in  tears ; 
O  memory,  hope,  love  of  finished  years. 
249 


O  dream  how  sweet,  too  sweet,  too  bitter-sweet, 

Whose  wakening  should  have  been  in    Paradise, 
Where  souls  brimful  of  love  abide  and  meet ; 
Where  thirsting  longing  eyes 

Watch  the  slow  door 
That,  opening,  letting  in,  lets  out  no  more. 

Yet  come   to  me  in  dreams,  that  I  may  live 
My  very  life  again  though  cold  in  death : 
Come  back  to  me  in  dreams,  that  I  may  give 
Pulse  for  pulse,  breath  for  breath  : 

Speak  low,  lean  low, 
As  long  ago,  my  love,  how  long  ago  ? 

Christina  Rossctti. 


250 


XVII.        Rain  and  Wind 

The  Doubts  and  Despairs  of  Love 


XVII 

T  T  puzzled  me  to  find  him  in  so  much  pain  as  he 
appeared  to  be,  when  he  had  it  in  his  power  so 
easily  to  remove  the  cause  by  declaring  an  honour- 
able passion.  But  whatever  uneasiness  he  seemed 
to  endure,  it  could  easily  be  perceived  that  Olivia's 
anguish  was  still  greater.  ...  Her  vivacity  quite 
forsook  her  :  and  every  opportunity  of  solitude  was 
sought,  and  spent  in  tears. 

Oliver  Goldsmith,  "  The  Vicar  of  Wakefield." 


CLXXXIV.      The    Lover    Complaineth    of 
the  Unkindness  of  His  Love        J>      jt 

TV  /T  Y  lute,  awake  !   perform  the  last 
^' •*      Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste  ; 
And  end  that  I  have  now  begun  : 
And  when  this  song  is  sung  and   past, 
My  lute  !    be  still,  for  I   have  done. 

As  to  be  heard   where  ear  is  none ; 
As  lead  to  grave  in  marble  stone, 
My  song  may  pierce  her  heart  as  soon  ; 
Should  we  then  sing,  or  sigh,  or  moan  ? 
No,  no,   my  lute  !   for  I  have  done. 

The  rock  doth  not  so  cruelly, 
Repulse  the  waves  continually, 
As  she  my  suit  and  affection  : 
So  that  I  am  past  remedy  ; 
Whereby  my  lute  and   I   have  done, 
253 


Proud  of  the  spoil  that  thou  hast  got 
Of  simple   hearts  through  Love's  shot, 
By  whom,  unkind,  thou  hast  them  won ; 
Think  not  he  hath  his  bow  forgot, 
Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

Vengeance  shall  fall  on  thy  disdain, 
That  makest  but  game  of  earnest  pain ; 
Trow  not  alone  under  the  sun 
Unquit   to  cause  thy  lovers  plain, 
Although  my  lute  and  I  have  done. 

May  chance  thee  lie  withered   and   old 
In  winter  nights,  that  are  so   cold, 
Plaining  in  vain   unto   the  moon  ; 
Thy  wishes  then  dare  not  to  be  told : 
Care  then  who  list,  for  I  have  done. 

And  then  may  chance  thee  to  repent 
The  time  that  thou  hast  lost  and   spent, 
To  cause  thy  lovers  sigh  and  swoon : 
Then  shalt  thou  know  beauty  but  lent, 
And  wish  and  want,  as  I   have  done. 

Now  cease,  my  lute  !   this  is  the  last 
Labour  that  thou  and  I  shall  waste ; 
And  ended  is  that  we  begun  : 
Now  is  thy  song  both  sung  and  past ; 
My  lute,  be  still,  for  I  have  done. 

Sir  Thomas  Wyalt. 
254 


CLXXXV.     When  the  Lamp  is  Shattered 

TIT  HEN  the  lamp  is  shattered, 
^  *       The  light  in  the  dust  lies  dead— 
When  the  cloud  is  scattered, 

The  rainbow's  glory  is  shed. 
When  the  lute  is  broken, 

Sweet  tones  are  remembered  not ; 
When  the  lips  have  spoken, 

Loved  accents  are  soon  forgot. 


As  music  and  splendour 

Survive  not  the  lamp  and  the  lute, 
The  heart's  echoes  render 

No  song  when  the  spirit  is  mute  : — 
No  song  but  sad  dirges, 

Like  the  wind  through  a  ruined  cell, 
Or  the  mournful  surges 

That  ring  the  dead  seamen's  knell. 


When  hearts  have  once  mingled, 

Love  first  leaves  the  well-built  nest  ; 
The  weak  one  is  singled 

To  endure  what  it  once  possest. 
O  Love  !  who  bewailest 

The  frailty  of  all  things  here, 
Why  choose  you  the  frailest 

For  your  cradle,  your  home,  and  your  bier  ? 
255 


Its  passions  will  rock  thee 

As  the  storms  rock  the  ravens  on  high  ; 
Bright  reason  will  mock  thee, 

Like  the  sun  from  a  wintry  sky. 
From  thy  nest  every  rafter 

Will  rot,  and  thine  eagle  home 
Leave  thee  naked  to  laughter, 

When  leaves  fall  and  cold  winds  come. 

P.  B.  SJtellev. 


CLXXXVI.     Levvti  ;     or,     The     Circassian 
Love-Chaunt          Jt      Jt,      Jt      Jt      jt 

A  T  midnight  by  the  stream  I  roved, 
**•    To  forget  the  form  I  loved. 
Image  of  Lewti !  from  my  mind 
Depart ;  for  Lewti  is  not  kind. 

The  Moon  was  high,  the  moonlight  gleam 

And  the  shadow  of  a  star 
Heaved  upon  Tamaha's  stream  ; 

But  the  rock  shone  brighter  far, 
The  rock  half-sheltered  from  my  view 
By  pendant  boughs  of  tressy  yew — 
So  shines  my  Lewti's  forehead  fair, 
Gleaming  through  her  sable  hair. 
Image  of  Lewti !  from  my  mind 
Depart ;  for  Lewti  is  not  kind. 
256 


I  saw  a  cloud  of  palest  hue, 

Onward  to  the  moon  it  passed ; 
Still  brighter  and  more  bright  it  grew, 
With  floating  colours  not  a  few, 

Till  it  reached  the  moon  at  last: 
Then  the  cloud  was  wholly  bright, 
With  a  rich  and  amber  light ! 
And  so  with  many  a  hope  I  seek. 

And  with  such  joy  I  find  my  Lewti  ; 
And  even  so  my  pale  wan  cheek 

Drinks  in  as  deep  a  flush  of  beauty  ! 
Nay,  treacherous  image  !  leave  my  mind, 
If  Lewti  never  will  be  kind. 


The  little  cloud— it  floats  away, 

Away  it  goes ;  away  so  soon  ? 
Alas  !  it  has  no  power  to  stay : 
Its  hues  are  dim,  its  hues  are  grey — 

Away  it  passes  from  the  moon  ! 
How  mournfully  it  seems  to  fly, 

Ever  fading  more  and  more, 
To  joyless  regions  of  the  sky — 

And  now  'tis  whiter  than  before ! 
As  white  as  my  poor  cheek  will  be, 

When,  Lewti !  on  my  couch  I  lie, 
A  dying  man  for  love  of  thee. 
Nay,  treacherous  image  !  leave  my  mind  — 
And  yet,  thou  didst  not  look  unkind. 
257 


I  saw  a  vapour  in  the  sky, 

Thin,  and  white,  and  very  high  ; 
I  ne'er  beheld  so  thin  a  cloud  : 

Perhaps  the  breezes  that  can  fly 

Now  below  and  now  above, 
Have  snatched  aloft  the  lawny  shroud 

Of  Lady  fair — that  died  for  love. 
For  maids,  as  well  as  youths,  have  perished 
From  fruitless  love  too  fondly  cherished. 
Nay,  treacherous  image  !  leave  my  mind — 
For  Lewti  never  will  be  kind. 

Hush  !  my  heedless  feet  from  under 
Slip  the  crumbling  banks  for  ever : 

Like  echoes  to  a  distant  thunder, 
They  plunge  into  the  gentle  river. 

The  river-swans  have  heard  my  tread, 

And  startle  from  their  reedy  bed. 

O  beauteous  birds  !  methinks  ye  measure 
Your  movements  to  some  heavenly  tune  ! 

0  beauteous  birds  !  'tis  such  a  pleasure 
To  see  you  move  beneath  the  moon, 

1  would  it  were  your  true  delight 
To  sleep  by  day  and  wake  all  night. 

I  know  the  place  where  Lewti  lies, 
When  silent  night  has  closed  her  eyes  : 

It  is  a  breezy  jasmine-bower, 
The  nightingale  sings  o'er  her  head  : 

Voice  of  the  night  !  had  I  the  power 
258 


That  leafy  labyrinth  to  thread, 

And  creep  like  thee  with  soundless  tread 

I  then  might  view  her  bosom  white 

Heaving  lovely  to  my  sight, 

As  these  two  swans  together  heave 

On  the  gentle  swelling  wave. 

Oh  !  that  she  saw  me  in  a  dream, 

And  dreamt  that  I  had  died  for  care  ; 

All  pale  and  wasted  I  would  seem, 
Yet  fair  withal,  as  spirits  are  ! 
I'll  die  indeed,  if  I  might  see 

Her  bosom  heave,  and  heave  for  me  ! 

Soothe,  gentle  image  !  soothe  my  mind  ! 

To-morrow  Lewti  may  be  kind. 

S.  Taylor  Coleridge. 


CLXXXVII.     Edward  Gray       jt      ^ 

O  WEET  Emma  Moreland  of  yonder  town 
v-'     Met  me  walking  in  yonder  way, 
"  And  have  you  lost  your  heart  ? "  she  said ; 
"And  are  you  married  yet,  Edward  Gray? 

Sweet  Emma  Moreland  spoke  to  me  : 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away : 

"  Sweet  Emma  Moreland,  love  no  more 
Can  touch  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray. 
259 


"  Ellen  Adair  she  loved  me  well, 
Against  her  father's  and  mother's  will: 

To-day  I  sat  for  an  hour  and  wept, 
By  Ellen's  grave,  on  the  windy  hill. 

"  Shy  she  was,  and  I  thought  her  cold  ; 

Thought  her  proud,  and  fled  over  the  sea 
Filled  I  was  with  folly  and  spite, 

When  Ellen  Adair  was  dying  for  me. 

"  Cruel,  cruel  the  words  I  said ! 

Cruelly  came  they  back  to-day : 
'You're  too  slight  and  fickle,'  I  said, 

'To  trouble  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray.' 

•"There  I  put  my  face  in  the  grass — 
Whisper'd,  '  Listen  to  my  despair : 

I  repent  me  of  all  I  did : 
Speak  a  little,  Ellen  Adair ! ' 

"Then  I  took  a  pencil,  and  wrote 

On  the  mossy  stone,  as  I  lay, 
*  Here  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  ; 

And  here  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray  !' 

•"Love  may  come,  and  love  may  go, 
And  fly,  like  a  bird,  from  tree  to  tree  : 

But  I  will  love  no  more,  no  more, 
Till  Ellen  Adair  come  back  to  me. 

"Bitterly  wept  I  over  the  stone: 
Bitterly  weeping  I  turn'd  away: 
260 


There  lies  the  body  of  Ellen  Adair  ! 
And  there  the  heart  of  Edward  Gray  ! " 

Lord  Tennyson, 

CLXXXVIII.     Two  in  the  Campagna 

i. 

T   WONDER  do  you  feel  to-day 
•^     As  I  have  felt  since,  hand  in  hand, 
We  sat  down  on  the  grass,  to  stray 
In  spirit  better  through  the  land, 
This  morn  of  Rome  and  May  ? 


For  me,  I  touched  a  thought,  I  know, 
Has  tantalised  me  many  times, 

(Like  turns  of  thread  the  spiders  throw 
Mocking  across  our  path)  for  rhymes 

To  catch  at  and  let  go. 


Help  me  to  hold  it !   first  it  left 
The  yellowing  fennel,  run  to  seed 

There,  branching  from  the  brickwork's  cleft, 
Some  old  tomb's  ruin  :   yonder  weed 

Took  up  the  floating  weft. 


Where  one  small  orange  cup  amassed 

Five  beetles, — blind  and  green  they  grope 
261 


Among  the  honey-meal :  and  last, 
Everywhere  on  the  grassy  slope 
I  traced  it.     Hold  it  fast  ! 


The  champaign  with  its  endless  fleece 
Of  feathery  grasses  everywhere  ! 

Silence  and  passion,  joy  and  peace, 
An  everlasting  wash  of  air — 

Rome's  ghost  since  her  decease. 


Such  life  there,  through  such  lengths  of  hours, 

Such  miracles  performed  in  play, 
Such  primal  naked  forms  of  flowers, 

Such  letting  nature  have  her  way 
While  heaven  looks  from  its  towers  ! 

VII. 

How  say  you  ?     Let  us,  O  my  dove, 

Let  us  be  unashamed  of  soul, 
As  earth  lies  bare  to  heaven  above! 

How  is  it  under  our  control 
To  love  or  not  to  love  ? 

vm. 

I  would  that  you  were  all  to  me, 

You  that  are  just  so  much,  no  more. 
Nor  yours  nor  mine,  nor  slave  nor  free  ! 
262 


Where  does  the  fault  lie  ?   What  the  core 
O'  the  wound,  since  wound  must  be  ? 

IX. 

I  would  I  could  adopt  your  will, 
See  with  your  eyes,  and  set  my  heart 

Beating  by  yours,  and  drink  my  fill 
At  your  soul's  springs,  —  your  part  my  part 

In  life,  for  good  and  ill. 

x. 

No.     I  yearn  upward,  touch  you  close, 
Then  stand  away.     I  kiss  your  cheek, 

Catch  your  soul's  warmth,  —  I  pluck  the  rose 
And  love  it  more  than  tongue  can  speak  — 

Then  the  good  minute  goes. 

XI. 

Already  how  am  I  so  far 

Out  of  that  minute  ?     Must  I  go 

Still  like  the  thistle-ball,  no  bar, 

Onward,  whenever  light  winds  blow, 

Fixed  by  no  friendly  star  ? 


Just  when  I  seemed  about  to  learn  ! 

Where  is  the  thread  now  ?    Off  again  ! 
The  old  trick  !     Only  I  discern— 

Infinite  passion,  and  the  pain 
Of  finite  hearts  that  yearn. 

Robert  Browning. 
263 


CLXXXIX.     Sometimes  with  One  I  Love 

OOMETIMES  with  one  I  love  I  fill  myself  with 
*-^         rage  for  fear  I  effuse  unreturn'd  love, 
But  now  I  think  there  is  no  unreturn'd  love,  the 

pay  is  certain  one  way  or  another  ; 
(I   loved   a  certain   person   ardently  and   my  love 

was  not  returned. 
Yet  out  of  that  I  have  written  these  songs.) 

Walt  Whitman. 


XVIII.     Ripened  Fruits 

The  Happy  Husband 


265 


XVIII 

WHAT  we  too  often  doubt,  is  the  continuance 
of  such  a  relation  throughout  the  whole  of 
human  life.  We  think  it  right  in  the  lover  and 
mistress,  not  in  the  husband  and  wife.  .  .  .  Do 
you  not  feel  that  marriage — when  it  is  marriage  at 
all — is  only  the  seal  which  marks  the  vowed  transi- 
tion of  temporary  into  untiring  service,  and  of  fitful 
into  eternal  love  ? 

John  Ruskin,  "  Sesame  and  Lilies." 


CXC.     The  Anniversary      &      Jt>      Jt 

A   LL  kings  and  all  their  favourites — 
•^*-  All  glory  of  honours,  beauties  and  wits, — 
(The  Sun  itself,  which  times  them  as  they  pass 
Is  elder  by  a  year  now  than  it  was 
When  thou  and  I  first  one  another  saw) : — 

All  other  things  to  their  destruction  draw ; 
Only  our  love  hath  no  decay  : 
This  no  to-morrow  hath  nor  yesterday; 
Running,  it  never  runs  from  us  away, 
But  truly  keeps  his  first,  last,  everlasting  day. 

John  Donne. 

The  Garden  of  Love.  367 


CXCI.     The  Happy   Husband    jt       Jt 

/^\FT,  oft,  methinks,  the  while  with  Thee 
^^     I  breathe,  as  from  the  heart,  thy  dear 

And  dedicated  name,  I  hear 
A  promise  and  a  mystery, 

A  pledge  of  more  than  passing  life, 
Yea,  in  that  very  name  of  Wife  ! 

A  pulse  of  love  that  ne'er  can  sleep  ! 

A  feeling  that  upbraids  the  heart 

With  happiness  beyond  desert, 
That  gladness  half  requests  to  weep  ! 

Nor  bless  I  not  the  keener  sense 

And  unalarming  turbulence. 

Of  transient  joys,  that  ask  no  sting 
From  jealous  fears,  or  coy  denying  ; 
But  born  beneath  Love's  brooding  wing, 

And  into  tenderness  soon  dying, 

Wheel  out  their  giddy  moment,  then 
Resign  the  soul  to  love  again  ; — 

A  more  precipitated  vein 

Of  notes  that  eddy  in  the  flow 
Of  smoothest  song,  they  come,  they  go, 
And  leave  their  sweeter  understrain 
Its  own  sweet  self— a  love  of  Thee 
That  seems,  yet  cannot  greater  be  ! 

S.  T.  Coleridge. 
268 


CXCII.     The  Exchange      &      jt,      jt 

jyjY  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  hi 
By  just  exchange  one  to  the  other  given : 
I   hold  his  dear,  and  mine  he  cannot  miss, 
There  never  was  a  better  bargain  driven  : 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

His  heart  in  me,  keeps  him  and  me  in  one, 
My  heart  in  him,  his  thought  and  senses  guide 
He  loves  my  heart,  for  once  it  was  his  own, 
I  cherish  his,  because  in  me  it  bides ; 
My  true  love  hath  my  heart,  and  I  have  his. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

CXCII  I.     Love  and  Nature        Jt>      Jt 

"\17HEN  long  upon  the  scales  of  fate 

V  *       The  issue  of  my  passion  hung, 
And  on  your  eyes  I  laid  in  wait, 

And  on  your  brow,  and  on  your  tongue. 

High-frowning  Nature  pleased  me  most, 
Strange  pleasure  was,  it  to  discern 

Sharp  rocks  and  mountains  peaked  with  frost, 
Through  gorges  thick  with  fir  and  fern. 

The  flowerless  walk,  the  vapoury  shrouds. 
Could  comfort  me ;   though  best  of  all, 

I  loved  the  daughter  of  the  clouds, — 
The  wild,  capricious  waterfall, — 


But  now  that  you  and  I  repose 

On  one  affection's  certain  store, 
Serener  charms  take  place  of  those, — 

Plenty  and  Peace,  and  little  more. 

The  hill  that  tends  its  mother-breast, 
To  patient  flocks  and  gentle  kine, — 

The  vale  that  spreads  its  royal  vest 
Of  golden  corn  and  purple  vine ; 

The  streams  that  bubble  out  their  mirth 
In  humble  nooks,  or  calmly  flow, 

The  crystal  life-blood  of  our  earth, 
Are  now  the  dearest  sights  I  know. 

Lord  Houghion. 


CXCIV.    You        jfc      *    jt      jk      jfc      j* 

f~*  OD  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  his  creatures 
^*-*     Boasts  two  soul-sides,  one  to  face   the  world 

with, 
One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her. 

This  I  say  of  me,  but  think  of  you,  Love  ! 

This  to  you — yourself,  my  moon  of  poets  ! 

Ah,  but  that's  the  world's  side,  there's  the  wonder, 

Thus  they  see  you,  praise  you,  think  they  know 

you  ! 

There,  in  turn  I  stand  with  them  and  praise  you— 
Out  of  my  own  self,  I  dare  to  phrase  it. 
270 


But  the  best  is  when  I  glide  from  out  them, 
Cross  a  step  or  two  of  dubious  twilight, 
Come  out  on  the  other  i  side,  the  novel 
Silent  silver  lights  and  darks  undreamed  of 
Where  I  hush  and  bless  myself  with  silence. 

Oh,  their  Raphael  of  the  dear  Madonnas, 
Oh,  their  Dante  of  the  dread  Inferno, 
Wrote  one  song — and  in  my  brain  I  sing  it, 
Drew  one  angel — borne,  see,  on  my  bosom  ! 

Robert  Browning. 

CXCV.     A  Song  of  Content       &      jt      jk 

'"pHE  eagle  nestles  near  the  sun  ; 

-•-      The  dove's  low  nest  for  me  ! — 
The  eagle  s  on  the  crag ;  sweet  one, 

The  dove's  in  our  green  tree  ! 
For  hearts  that  beat  like  thine  and  mine 

Heaven  blesses  humble  earth ; — 
The  angels  of  our  Heaven  shall  shine 
The  angels  of  our  Hearth  ! 

John  James  Pialt. 

CXCVI.  To  His  Wife  on  the  Sixteenth 
Anniversary  of  Her  Wedding-day, 
with  a  Ring  Jt  jfc  Jt  jt  jt 


T 


HEE,  Mary,  with   this  ring  I  wed," 
So  sixteen  years  ago  I  said— 
271 


Behold  another  ring  !  "  for  what  ? " 
To  wed  thee  o'er  again — why  not  ? 

With  the  first  ring  I  married  youth, 
Grace,  beauty,  innocence,  and  truth  ; 
Taste  long  admired,  sense  long  rever'd, 
And  all  my  Molly  then  appear'd. 

If  she  by  merit  since  disclosed, 
Prove  twice  the  woman  I  supposed, 
I  plead  that  double  merit  now, 
To  justify  a  double  vow. 

Here  then  to-day,  with  faith  as  sure, 
With  ardour  as  intense  and  pure, 
As  when  amidst  the  rites  divine 
I  took  thy  troth,  and  plighted  mine. 
To  thee,  sweet  girl,  my  second  ring, 
A  token  and  a  pledge  I  bring; 
With  this  I  wed,  till  death  us  part, 
Thy  riper  virtues  to  my  heart ; 
Those  virtues  which,  before  untried, 
The  wife  has  added  to  the  bride — 
Those  virtues  whose  progressive  claim, 
Endearing  wedlock's  very  name, 
My  soul  enjoys,  my  song  approves, 
For  conscience'  sake  as  well  as  love's. 

For  why  ?    They  teach  me  hour  by  hour 
Honour's  high  thought,  affection's  power, 
Discretion's  deed,   sound  judgment's  sentence, 
And  teach  me  all  things — but  repentance. 

Samuel  Bishop. 


272 


CXCVII.     Home          Jt      J      jk      jk 

'"pWO  birds  within  one  nest ; 

Two  hearts  within  one  breast  ; 
Two  spirits  in  one  fair, 
Firm  league  of  love  and  prayer, 

Together  bound  for  aye,  together  blest. 

An  ear  that  waits  to  catch 

A  hand  upon  the  latch  ; 

A  step  that  hastens  its  sweet  rest  to  win, 

A  world  of  care  without, 

A  world  of  strife  shut  out, 
A  world  of  love  shut  in. 

Dora  Greenwell. 


273 


XIX. 
A  Bonfire 

Loves  Renunciation 


275 


XIX 

"  THEREFORE,  Sir  Launcelot,  I  require  thec, 
-*-  and  beseech  thee  heartily,  for  all  the  love 
that  ever  was  between  us,  that  thou  never  look 
upon  me  more  in  the  visage  :  and  furthermore  I 
command  thee,  on  God's  behalf,  right  straightly 
that  thou  forsake  my  company.  .  .  .  For  as  well 
as  I  have  loved  thee,  Sir  Launcelot,  now  my  heart 
will  not  serve  me  to  see  thee." 

Sir  Thomas  Malory,  "  Morte  d' Arthur." 


CXCVIII.     Give  All  to  Love     Jt 

/~*  IVK  all  to  love  ; 

^-J     Obey  thy  heart  ; 

Friends,  kindred,  days, 

Estate,  good-fame, 

Plans,  credit,  and  the  Muse, — 

Nothing  refuse. 

'Tis  a  brave  master  ; 
Let  it  have  scope  : 
Follow  it  utterly, 
Hope  beyond  hope : 
High  and  more  high 
It  dives  into  noon, 
With  wing  inspent, 
Untold  intent  ; 
But  it  is  a  god, 
Knows  its  own  path 
And  the  outlets  of  the  sky. 
279 


It  was  never  for  the  mean ; 
It  requireth  courage  stout, 
Souls  above  doubt, 
Valour  unbending  ; 
Such  'twill  reward, — 
They  shall  return 
More  than  they  were, 
And  ever  ascending. 

Leave  all  for  love ; 

Yet,  hear  me,  yet, 

One  more  word  thy  heart  behoved, 

One  pulse  more  of  firm  endeavour,- 

Keep  thee  to-day, 

To-morrow,  forever, 

Free  as  an  Arab 

Of  thy  beloved. 

Cling  with  life  to  the  maid  ; 

But  when  the  surprise, 

First  vague  shadow  of  surmise 

Flits  across  her  bosom  young, 

Of  a  joy  apart  from  thee, 

Free  be  she,  fancy-free  ; 

Nor  thou  detain  her  vesture's  hem, 

Nor  the  palest  rose  she  flung 

From  her  summer  diadem. 

Though  thou  loved  her  as  thyself, 
As  a  self  of  purer  clay, 
Though  her  parting  dims  the  day, 
280 


Stealing  grace  from  all  alive ; 
Heartily  know, 
When  half-gods  go, 
The  gods  arrive. 

R.  W.  Emerson. 

CXCIX.     The  King's  Cupbearer         jt      , 

'"PHE  Queen  is  young  and  the  King  is  old, 
•*•  For  jhairs  of  grey  wed  tresses  of  gold  ; 
He,  garrulous-foul  ;  she,  maiden-cold, 

Than  lilies  of  Eden  fairer. 
Woven  glances  tmight  intertwine, 
Wordless  missives  of  hers  and  mine, 
Looks  that  cross  o'er  the  light  o'  the  wine, — 
But  I  am  the  King's  cupbearer. 

Rose  or  amber,  the  brimming  cup 

At  the  boisterous  banquet  I  proffer  up  : 

The  Queen  but  sips  where  the  King  doth  sup, 

Her  crown  overweights  its  wearer. 
Once  for  a  moment  her  fingers  slim 
Touched  with  mine  on  the  carven  rim, 
Cool  as  dew  in  the  twilight  dim — 

But  I  am  the  King's  cupbearer. 

Thro'  the  shattered  gateway  the  rabble  brawls 
The  guards  lie  slain  by  the  blazing  walls, 
There  is  fire  and  blood  in  the  trampled  halls — 
If  he  be  slain  they  will  spare  her, 
281 


I  might  carry  her  far  to  a  love-bright  land  .  . 
But  I  drink  to  the  dregs.     Here,  sword  in  hand, 
For  his  last  defence,  at  his  door  I  stand, — 

For  I  am  the  King's  cupbearer. 
.•  May  Byron. 


CC.     The  Last  Ride  Together    jt      &      jt 

T  SAID — Then,  dearest,  since  'tis  so, 
^-     Since  now  at  length  my  fate  I  know, 
Since  nothing  all  my  love  avails, 
Since  all,  my  life  seemed  meant  for,  fails, 

Since  this  was  written  and  needs  must  be — 
My  whole  heart  rises  up  to  bless 
Your  name  in  pride  and  thankfulness  ! 
Take  back  the  hope  you  gave, — I  claim 
Only  a  memory  of  the  same, 
And  this  beside,  if  you  will  not  blame, 

Your  leave  for  one  more  last  ride  with  me. 

My  mistress  bent  that  brow  of  hers ; 
Those  deep  dark  eyes  where  pride  demurs 
When  pity  would  be  softening  through, 
Fixed  me  a  breathing-while  or  two 

With  life  or  death  in  the  balance  :  right  ! 
The  blood  replenished  me  again  ; 
My  last  thought  was  at  least  not  vain  : 
I  and  my  mistress,  side  by  side 
Shall  be  together,  breathe  and  ride, 
282 


So,  one  day  more  am   I  deified. 

Who  knows  but  the  world  may  end  to-night  ? 

Hush  !  if  you  saw   some  western  cloud 

All  billowy-bosomed,  over-bowed 

By  many  benedictions — sun's 

And  moon's  and  evening-star's  at  once — 

And  so,  you,  looking  and  loving  best, 
Conscious  grew,  your  passion  drew 
Cloud,  sunset,  moonrise,  star-shine  too, 
Down  on  you,  near  and  yet  more  near, 
Till  flesh  must  fade  for  heaven  was  here  ! — 
Thus  leant  she  and  lingered — joy  and  fear  ! 

Thus  lay  she  a  moment  on  my  breast. 

Then  we  began  to  ride.     My  soul 
Smoothed  itself  out,  a  long-cramped  scroll 
Freshening  and  fluttering  in  the  wind. 
Past  hopes  already  lay  behind. 

What  need  to  strive  with  a  life  awry  ? 
Had  I  said  that,  had  I  done  this, 
So  might  I  gain,  so  might  I  miss. 
Might  she  have  loved  me  ?  just  as  well 
She  might  have  hated,  who  can  tell ! 
Where  had  I  been  now  if  the  worst  befell 

And  here  we  are  riding,  she  and  I. 

Fail  I  alone,  in  words  and  deeds  ? 
Why,  all  men  strive  and  who  succeeds  ? 
We  rode  ;  it  seemed  my  spirit  flew 
283 


Saw  other  regions,  cities  new, 

As  the  world  rushed  by  on  either  side. 
I  thought, — All  labour,  yet  no  less 
Bear  up  beneath  their  unsuccess. 
Look  at  the  end  of  work,  contrast 
The  petty  done,  the  undone  vast, 
This  present  of  theirs  with  the  hopeful  past  ! 

I  hoped  she  would  love  me  ;  here  we  ride. 

What  hand  and  brain  went  ever  paired  ? 
What  heart  alike  conceived  and  dared  ? 
What  act  proved  all  its  thought  had  been  ? 
What  will  but  felt  the  fleshly  screen  ? 

We  ride  and  I  see  her  bosom  heave. 
There's  many  a  crown  for  who  can  reach. 
Ten  lines,  a  statesman's  life  in  each  ! 
The  flag  stuck  on  a  heap  of  bones, 
A  soldier's  doing !  what  atones  ? 
They  scratch  his  name  on  the  Abbey-stones. 

My  riding  is  better,  by  their  leave. 

What  does  it  all  mean,  poet  ?    Well, 
Your  brains  beat  into  rhythm,  you  tell 
What  we  felt  only;  you  expressed 
You  hold  things  beautiful  the  best, 

And  pace  them  in  rhyme  so,  side  by  side. 
'Tis  something,  nay  'tis  much  :  but  then, 
Have  you  yourself  what's  best  for  men  ? 
Are  you — poor,  sick,  old  ere  your  time — 
Nearer  one  whit  your  own  sublime 
284 


Than  we  who  never  have  turned  a  rhyme  ? 
Sing,  riding's  a  joy  !     For  me,  I  ride. 

And  you,  great  sculptor — so,  you  gave 
A  score  of  years  to  Art,  her  slave, 
And  that's  your  Venus,  whence  we  turn 
To  yonder  girl  that  fords  the  burn  ! 

You  acquiesce,  and  shall  I  repine  ? 
What,  man  of  music,  you  grown  grey 
With  notes  and  nothing  else  to  say, 
Is  this  your  sole  praise  from  a  friend, 
"  Greatly  his  opera's  strains  intend, 
"  But  in  music  we  know  how  fashions  end  ! " 

I  gave  rny  youth  ;  but  we  ride,  in  fine. 

Who  knows  what's  fit  for  us  ?     Had  fate 
Proposed  bliss  here  should  sublimate 
My  being — had  I  signed  the  bond — 
Still  one  must  lead  some  life  beyond, 

Have  a  bliss  to  die  with,  dim-descried. 
This  foot  once  planted  on  the  goal, 
This  glory-garland  round  my  soul, 
Could  I  descry  such  ?    Try  and  test ! 
I  sink  back  shuddering  from  the  quest. 
Earth  being  so  good,  would  heaven  seem  best  ? 

Now,  heaven  and  she  are  beyond  this  ride. 

And  yet — she  has  not  spoke  so  long  ! 
What  if  heaven  be  that,  fair  and  strong 
At  life's  best,  with  our  eyes  upturned 
285 


Whither  life's  flower  is  first  discerned, 
We,  fixed  so,  ever  should  so  abide  ? 
What  if  we  still  ride  on,  we  two 
With  life  for  ever  old  yet  new, 
Changed  not  in  kind  but  in  degree, 
The  instant  made  eternity, — 
And  heaven  just  prove  that  I  and  she 
Ride,  ride  together,  for  ever  ride  ? 

Robert  Browning. 


CCI.     The  Ever-fixed  Mark       jt      jfc       «* 

T    ET  me  not  to  the  marriage  of  true  minds 

*— '     Admit  impediments.     Love  is  not  love 

Which  alters  when  it  alteration  finds, 

Or  bends  with  the  remover  to  remove  : 

O,  no  !   it  is  an  ever-fixed  mark 

That  looks  on  tempests  and  is  never  shaken  ; 

It  is  the  star  to  every  wandering  bark, 

Whose    worth's    unknown,  although   his  height    be 

taken. 
Love's    not    Time's    fool,    though    rosy    lips     and 

cheeks 

Within  his  bending  sickle's  compass  come  ; 
Love  alters  not  with  his  brief  hours  and  weeks, 
But  bears  it  out  even  to  the  edge  of  doom. 
If  this  be  error  and  upon  me  proved, 
I  never  writ,  nor  no  man  ever  loved. 

William  Shakespeare. 
286 


CCII.     One  Way  of  Love  jt      j* 

A   LL  June  I  bound  the  rose  in  sheaves. 
^     Now,  rose  by  rose,  I  strip  the  leaves 
And  strew  them  where  Pauline  may  pass. 
She  will  not  turn  aside  ?    Alas  ! 
Let  them  lie.     Suppose  they  die  ? 
The  chance  was  they  might  take  her  eye. 

How  many  a  month  I  strove  to  suit 
These  stubborn  fingers  to  the  lute  ! 
To-day  I  venture  all  I  know. 
She  will  not  hear  my  music  ?     So  ! 
Break  the  string  ;  fold  music's  wing  : 
Suppose  Pauline  had  bade  me  sing  ! 

My  whole  life  long  I  learned  to  love. 

This  hour  my  utmost  art  I  prove 

And  speak  my  passion — heaven  or  hell  ? 

She  will  not  give  me  heaven  ?    'Tis  well  ! 

Lose  who  may — I  still  can  say, 

Those  who.  win  heaven,  blest  are  they  ! 

Robert  Browning. 


287 


XX.      Faded     Leaves    and    Withered 

Flowers 

Ashes  of  Love. 


289 


XX 

~C*OR,  like  as  winter  rasure  doth  always  rase  and 
•••  deface  green  summer  :  so  fareth  it  by  unstable 
love  in  a  man,  and  in  woman,  for  in  many  persons 
there  is  no  stability.  .  .  .  Wherefore,  I  liken  love 
nowadays  unto  summer  and  winter  :  for  like  as  one 
is  hot  and  the  other  cold,  so  fareth  love  nowadays. 
.  .  .^This  is  no  stability  :  but  the  old  love  was  not  so. 
Sir  Tlionias  Malory,  " Morte  d' Arthur." 


CCIII.     Separation       Jt,      jt      jt      Jk       Jt, 

O  TOP  !—  not  to  me  at  this  bitter  departing, 
^-^  Speak  of  the  sure  consolations  of  Time  ! 
Fresh  be  the  wound,  still  renewed  be  its  smarting, 

So  but  thy  image  endure  in  its  prime.  .  .  . 
Then,  when  we  meet,  and  thy  look  strays  toward 

me, 
Scanning  my  face  and   the   changes  wrought 

there, 
Who,  let  me  say,  is  this  Stranger  regards  me, 

With  the  grey  eyes  and  the  lovely  brown  hair? 
Matthew  Arnold. 

CCIV.     When  we  Two  Parted    Jk      Jt     j> 


AT  7 
•  V 


HEN  we  two  parted 

In  silence  and  tears, 
Half  broken-hearted, 
To  sever  for  years. 

The  Garden  of  Love.  2QI 


Pale  grew  thy  cheek  and  cold, 

Colder  thy  kiss; 
Truly  that  hour  foretold 

Sorrow  to  this. 

The  dew  of  the  morning 

Sunk  chill  on  my  brow- 
It  felt  like  the  warning 

Of  what  I  feel  now. 
Thy  vows  are  all  broken, 

And  light  is  thy  fame  ; 
I  hear  thy  name  spoken, 

And  share  in  its  shame. 

They  name  thee  before  me, 

A  knell  to  mine  ear ; 
A  shudder  comes  o'er  me — 

Why  wert  thou  so  dear  ? 
They  know  not  I  knew  thee, 

Who  knew  thee  too  well : — 
Long,  long  shall  I  rue  thee, 

Too  deeply  to  tell. 

In  secret  we  met — 

In  silence  I  grieve, 
That  thy  heart  could  forget, 

Thy  spirit  deceive. 
If  I  should  meet  thee, 

After  long  years, 
How  should  I  greet  thee  ?— 

With  silence  and  tears. 

Lord  Byron. 
292 


CCV.     In  a  Year 


NEVER  any  more 
While  I  live, 
Need  I  hope  to  see  his  face 

As  before. 
Once  his  love  grown  chill, 

Mine  may  strive  : 
Bitterly  we  re-embrace, 
Single  still. 

n. 
Was  it  something  said, 

Something  done, 
Vexed  him  ?  was  it  touch  of  hand, 

Turn  of  head? 
Strange  !   that  very  way 

Love  begun  : 
I  as  little  understand 

Love's  decay. 

in. 
When  I  sewed  or  drew, 

I  recall 
How  he  looked  as  if  I  sung, 

— Sweetly  too. 
If  I  spoke  a  word, 

First  of  all 
Up  his  cheek  the  colour  sprung,. 

Then  he  heard. 
293 


Sitting  by  my  side, 

At  my  feet, 
So  he  breathed  the  air  I  breathed 

Satisfied  ! 
I,  too,  at  love's  brim 

Touched  the  sweet : 
I  would  die  if  death  bequeathed 

Sweet  to  him. 


"  Speak,  I  love  thee  best  ! " 

He  exclaimed, 
"  Let  my  love  thy  own  foretell ! " 

I  confessed  : 
"Clasp  my  heart  on  thine 

"  Now  unblamed, 
"  Since  upon  thy  soul  as  well 

"  Hangeth  mine !" 


Was  it  wrong  to  own, 

Being  truth  ? 
Why  should  all  the  giving  prove 

His  alone  ? 
I  had  wealth  and  ease, 

Beauty,  youth  : 
Since  my  lover  gave  me  love, 

I  gave  these. 
294 


VII. 

That  was  all   I   meant, 

—To  be  just, 
And  the  passion  I  had  raised, 

To  content. 
Since  he  chose  to  change 

Gold  for  dust, 
If  I  gave  him  what  he  praised 

Was  it  strange  ? 

VIII. 

Would  he  loved  me  yet, 

On  and  on, 
While  I  found  some  way  undreamed 

— Paid  my  debt  ! 
Gave  more  life  and  more, 

Till,  all  gone, 
He  should  smile  "  She  never  seemed 

"  Mine  before. 

IX. 

"What,  she  felt  the  while, 

"  Must  I  think  ? 
"Love's  so  different  with  us  men." 

He  should  smile  : 
"  Dying  for  my  sake — 

"  White  and  pink  ! 
"  Can't  we  touch  these  bubbles  then 

"But  they  break?" 
295 


X. 

Dear,  the  pang  is  brief, 

Do  thy  part, 
Have  thy  pleasure  !     How  perplexed 

Grows  belief  ! 
Well,  this  cold  clay  clod 

Was  man's  heart  : 
Crumble  it,  and  what  comes  next  ? 

Is  it  God  ? 

Robert  Browning. 

CCVI.     When  Passion's  Trance  is  Overpast 

\\  7" HEN  passion's  trance  is  overpast, 

*  *       If  tenderness  and  truth  could  last, 
Or  live,  whilst  all  wild  feelings  keep 
Some  mortal  slumber,  dark  and  deep, 
I  should  not  weep,  I  should  not  weep  ! 

It  were  enough  to  feel,  to  see, 

Thy  soft  eyes  gazing  tenderly, 

And  dream  the  rest— and  burn  and  be 

The  secret  food  of  fires  unseen, 

Couldst  thou  but  be  as  thou  hast  been. 

After  the  slumber  of  the  year 
The  woodland  violets  re -appear  ; 
All  things  revive  in  field  or  grove, 
And  sky  and  sea,  but  two,  which  move 
And  form  all  others, — iife,  and  love. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 
296 


CCVII.     In  a  Drear-nighted  December 

T  N  a  drear-nighted  December, 

Too  happy,  happy  tree, 
Thy  branches  ne'er  remember 

Their  green  felicity  : 
The  north  cannot  undo  them, 
With  a  sleety  whistle  through  them  ; 
Nor  frozen  thawings  glue  them 
From  budding  at  the  prime. 

In  a  drear-nighted  December, 
Too  happy,  happy  brook, 
Thy  bubblings  ne'er  remember 

Apollo's  summer  look  ; 
But  with  a  sweet  forgetting, 
They  stay  their  crystal  fretting, 
Never,  never  petting 

About  the  frozen  time. 


Ah  !  would  'twere  so  with  many 

A  gentle  girl  and  boy  ! 
But  were  there  ever  any 

Writh'd  not  at  passed  joy  ? 

To  know  the  change  and  feel  it, 

When  there  is  none  to  heal  it, 

Nor  numbed  sense  to  steal  it, 

Was  never  said  in  rhyme. 

John  Keats. 
297 


CCVIII.     The  Time  will  Come         Jt      j> 

HPHE  time  will  come — some  day,  some  day,  not 
*-      now — 

When  you  will  kneel  and  weep  without  my  gate 
In  bitter  anguish  for  each  broken  vow 
That  fell  as  berries  from  the  faded  bough, 
But  I  shall  answer  you,  It  is  too  late. 

The   time   will   come — not    now,   some   day,   some 
day — 

When  you  will  clasp  the  threshold  of  my  door, 
Entreating  only  a  moment  there  to  stay ; 
And  I  perchance  a  word  or  two  may  say — 

But  not  the  words  I  said  to  you  before. 

The    time   will    come — some    day,   be    it   soon   or 

late— 
When   you    shall   stand,   a   shuddering  soul    un- 

shriven, 

And  crave  one  sign  of  me,  ere  God's  high  gate 
May  ope — and  I  shall  scorn  you  where  you  wait — 
Endlessly  loved — endlessly  unforgiven  ! 

May  Byron. 

CCIX.     A   Parting       Jk      3>      jfc      «#      jt 

SINCE  there's  no  help,  come,  let  us  kiss  and 
part, 

Nay,  I  have  done,  you  get  no  more  of  me  ; 
And  I  am  glad,  yea,  glad  with  all  my  heart, 
And  thus  so  cleanly  I  myself  can  free  : 
298 


Shake  hands,  for  ever  cancel  all  our  vows. 

And  when  we  meet  at  any  time  again, 
Be  it  not  seen  in  either  of  our  brows 

That  we  one  jot  of  former  love  retain. 

Now,  at  the  last  gasp  of  Love's  latest  breath, 

When,  his  pulse  failing,  Passion  speechless  lies 
When  Faith  is  kneeling  by  his  bed  of  death, 

And  Innocence  is  closing  up  his  eyes, 
Now,  if   thou   would'st,  when  all   have   given   him 

over, — 

From   death  to   life   thou   might'st   him   yet    re- 
cover ! 

Michael  Drayton. 

CCX.     A    Dead   March        Jt>      Jt      jk      Jt, 

T)  E  hushed,  all  voices  and  untimely  laughter  ! 
*-*     Let  no  least  word  be  lightly  said 
In  the  awful  presence  of  the  Dead, 

That  slowly,  slowly,  this  way  comes, — 
Arms  piled  on  coffin,  comrades  marching  after, 
Colours  reversed,  and  muffled  drums. 

Be  bared,  all  heads  !  feet,  the  procession  follow, 
Throughout  the  stilled  and  sorrowing  town  ; 
Weep,  woeful  eyes,  and  be  cast  down ; 

Tread  softly,  till  the  bearers  stop 
Under  the  cypress  in  the  shadowy  hollow, 
While  last  light  fades  o'er  mountain-top. 
299 


Lay    down    your    burden    here,    whose    life    hath 

journeyed 

Afar,  and  where  ye  may  not  wot ; 
Some  little  while  around  this  spot 

Be  dirges  sung  and  prayers  low-said, 
Dead  leaves  disturbed,  and  clammy  earth  upturned, 
Then  in  his  grave  dead  Love  is  laid. 

Fling  them  upon  him — withered  aspirations, 
And  battered  hopes  and  broken  vows  ; 
He  was  the  last  of  all  his  house, 

Has  left  behind  no  kith  nor  kin — 
His  bloodstained  arms  and  faded  decorations, 
His  dinted  helmet — throw  them  in  ! 

And  all  the  time  the  twilight  skies  are  turning 
To  sullen  ash  and  leaden  grey — 
Cast  the  sods  o'er  him,  come  away, 

In  vain  upon  his  name  you  call, 
Though    you    all     night    should    cry    with     bitter 

yearning, 
He  would  not  heed  nor  hear  at  all. 

Pass  homewards  now,  in  musing  melancholy, 
To  find  the  house  enfilled  with  gloom, 
And  no  lights  lit  in  any  room, 

And  stinging  herald-drops  of  rain. 
Choke  up  your  empty  heart  with  anguish  wholly, 
For  Love  will  never  rise  again. 

A/.  C.  Gillington. 
300 


XXI.     A  Bench  in  a  Sunny  Corner 

Wedded  Lovers  Growing  old  Together 


301 


XXI 

"T^OR  it  is  to  be  considered  that  this  passion  of 
•^  which  we  speak,  though  it  begin  with  the 
young,  yet  forsakes  not  the  old,  or  rather  suffers 
no  one  who  is  truly  its  servant  to  grow  old,  but 
makes  the  aged  participators  of  it,  not  less  than 
the  tender  maiden,  though  in  a  different  and  nobler 
sort. 

R.  W.  Emerson,  "Love," 


CCXI.     Love's    House          jfc      Jt      Jk      jt 

/^\H,  in  Love's  emerald  house 

^^     Of  emerald  chestnut  boughs, 

The  brown  wife  broods  upon  blue  eggs  and  dear, 
Nor  finds  the  gold  days  long, 
Hearing  her  true  Love's  song 

Of  love  and  wedding  in  the  sweet  o'  the  year. 

And  in  Love's  golden  house 
Of  golden  chestnut  boughs, 

The  brown  bird  to  his  sweet  sings  wild  and  clear ; 
Though  little  ones  are  gone, 
The  true  Love  lingers  on, 

For  two  old  lovers  in  the  fall  o'  the  year. 

Katharine  Tynan. 

CCXII.     Wrinkles        ^      *      j*      *      J 

TT  7HEN   Helen  first  saw  iwrinkles  in  her  face 
*  ^       ('Twas   when    some   fifty   long  had  settled 

there 

And  intermarried  and  brancht  off  aside), 
She  threw  herself  upon  her  couch,  and  wept ; 
303 


On  this  side  hung  her  head,  and  over  that 
Listlessly  she  let  fall  the  faithless  brass 
That  made  the  rnen  as  faithless. 

But  when  you 

Found  them,  or  fancied  them,  and  would  not  hear 
That  they  were  only  vestiges  of  smiles, 
Or  the  impression  of  some  amorous  hair 
Astray  from  cloistered  curls  and  roseate  band, 
Which  had  been  lying  there  all  night  perhaps 
Upon  a  skin  so  soft.  ...  No,  no,  you  said, 
Sure,  they  are  coming,  yes,  are  come,  are  here.  .  . 
Well,  and  what  matters  it  .  .  .  while  you  are  too  ! 
Walter  Savage  Landot. 

CCXIII.     The  Refuge        j>      jt,      Jt      Jt 

WHEN  that  whereby  you  wrought  your  charms 
Hath  faded,  as  it  must : 
When  Beauty's  arsenal  of  arms 

Lies  ruined  in  the  dust, — 
When  wrinkles  show  where  smiles  have  been, 

And  grey  hairs  follow  gold, — 
Then,  then,  while  all  your  suitors  flee, 
Come,  Phyllida,  O  come  to  me, 
And  dwell  my  soul's  most  sovereign  queen, 

Even  as  you  were  of  old  ! 

For  sparkling  eyes  and  glowing  lips 

Are  but  your  outward  show  : 
When  these  shall  suffer  Time's  eclipse, 

Yourself  remains  below  : 
304 


Yourself,  more  sweet  than  thousand  springs, 

No  winter  can  destroy : 
Then,  then,  when  lighter  lovers  flee, 
Come,  Phyllida,  O  come  to  me, 
And  crown  me  king  of  all  the  kings 

That  ever  looked  on  joy  ! 

Maurice  Clare. 

CCXIV.     Autumnal  Beauty        Jt      Jt,       jt, 

"XT  O    spring,    nor    summer's    beauty,    hath    such 
^      grace 

As  I  have  seen  in  one  autumnal  face. 
If   'twere  a  shame  to   love,  here  'twere  no   shame. 

Affections  here  take  Reverence's  name, 
Were  her  first  years  the  golden  age  ;  that's  true 

But  now  she's  gold  oft  tried,  yet  ever  new. 
That  was  her  torrid  and  inflaming  time  ; 

This  is  her  habitable  tropic  clime. 
Fair   eyes  !  who  asks  more   heat   than  comes  from 
hence, 

He  in  a  fever  wishes  pestilence. 
Call  not    these  wrinkles    graves ;  if    graves    they 
were, 

They  were  Love's  graves,  or  else  he  is  nowhere. 
Yet  lies  not  Love  dead  here,  but  here  doth  sit, 

Vow'd  to  this  trench,  like  an  anachorit, 
Here  dwells  he ;  though  he  sojourn  everywhere 

In  progress,  yet  his  standing  house  is  here  ; 
Here  where  still  evening  is,  not  noon,  nor  night, 
305 


Where  no  voluptuousness,  yet  all  delight. 
If  we  love  things  long  nought,  age  is  a  thing 

Which  we  are  fifty  years  in  compassing  ; 
If  transitory  things  which  soon  decay, 

Age  must  be  loveliest  at  the  latest  day. 

'John  Donne. 


CCXV.     John  Anderson,  My  Jo         j* 

JOHN  ANDERSON,  my  jo,  John, 
J      When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  beld,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snavv  ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson,  my  jo. 

John  Anderson,  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegithcr  ; 
And  monie  a  canty  day,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither  : 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we'll  go ; 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson',  my  jo. 

Robert  Burns. 
306 


1 


:CXVI.     To  Biancha          jt      *    z*    I 

"\1THEN  age  or  chance  has  made  me  blind, 
V  *       So  that  the  path  I  cannot  find  ; 
And  when  my  falls  and  stumblings  are 
More  than  the  stones  i'  th'  street  by  far; 
Go  thou  afore,  and  I  shall  well 
Follow  thy  perfumes  by  the  smell  ; 
Or  be  my  guide,   and  I  shall  be 
Led  by  some  light  that  flows  from  thee. 

Robert  Herrick. 


CCXVII.     Unchanging  Love      jk      jt,      jt 

T)  ELI  EVE     me,   if    all   those    endearing    young 
-^        charms, 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 
Were   to   change    by  to-morrow,  and    fleet   in    my 
arms, 

Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away, 

Thou    wouldst    still    be   adored,    as    this    moment 
thou  art, 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will, 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  heart, 

Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

O,  it  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own, 
And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a  tear, 

That  the  fervour  and  faith  of  a  soul  can  be  known, 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more  dear  ; 

307 


No,  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sun-flower  turns  on  her  god,  when  he  sets, 

The  same  look  which  she  turn'd  when  he  rose. 
Thomas  Moore. 

CCXVIII.     Immortal  Youth       jt      Jt      jt, 

r  I  ^O  me,  fair  friend,  you  never  can  be  old, 
-*-       For  as  you  were  when  first  your  eye  I  eyed, 
Such  seems  your  beauty  still.     Three  winters  cold 

Have  from  the  forest  shook  three  summers'  pride, 
Three  beauteous  springs  to  yellow  autumn  turn'd 

In  process  of  the  seasons  have  I  seen, 
There  April  perfumes  in  three  hot  Junes  burn'd, 

Since  when  I  saw  you  fresh,  which  yet  are  green. 
Ah  !  yet  doth  beauty,  like  a  dial-hand, 

Steal  from  his  figure  and  no  pace  perceived ; 
So  your  sweet  hue,  which  methinks  still  doth  stand. 

Hath  motion  and  mine  eye  may  be  deceived  : 

For  fear  of  which,  hear  this,  thou  age  unbred  ; 

Ere  you  were  born  was  beauty's  summer  dead. 
William  Shakespeare. 

CCXIX.     Toujours  Amour          Jt,      jt,      jt, 

pRITHEE  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin, 
*       At  what  age  does  Love  begin  ? 
Your  blue  eyes  have  scarcely  seen 
Summers  three,  my  fairy  queen, 
308 


But  a  miracle  of  sweets,. 
Soft  approaches,  sly  retreats, 
Show  the  little  archer  there, 
Hidden  in  your  pretty  hair  ; 
When  didst  learn  a  heart  to  win  ? 
Prithee  tell  me,  Dimple-Chin  ! 

"  Oh  ! "   the  rosy  lips  reply, 
"  I  can't  tell  you,  if  I  try. 
'Tis  so  long  I  can't  remember  : 
Ask  some  younger  lass  than  I  ! " 

Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled- Face, 

Do  your  heart  and  head  keep  pace  ? 

When  does  hoary  Love  expire, 

When  do  frosts  put  out  the  fire  ? 

Can  its  embers  burn  below 

All  that  chill  December  snow? 

Care  you  still  soft  hands  to  press,. 

Bonny  heads  to  smooth  and  bless? 

When  does  Love  give  up  the  chase  ? 

Tell,  O  tell  me,  Grizzled-Face ! 
"  Ah  ! "  the  wise  old  lips  reply, 
"Youth  may  pass,  and  strength  may,  die, 
But  of  Love  I  can't  foretoken  : 
Ask  some  older  sage  than  I  ! " 

Edmund  Clarence^  Stedman. 


309 


CCXX.    The  Measurement         j*      jfr      ^ 

T  T  OW  do  I  love  thee  ?    Let  me  count  the  ways 
I  love  thee  to  the  depth   and  breadth  and 

height 

My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out  of  sight 
For  the  ends  of  Being  and  ideal  Grace. 
I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 
Most  quiet  need,  by  sun  and  candlelight. 
I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for  Right ; 
I  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from  Praise. 
I  love  thee  with  the  passion  put  to  use 
In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  childhood's  faith. 
I   love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to  lose 
With  my  lost  saints,— I  love  thee  with  the  breath, 
Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life  ! — and  if  God  choose, 
I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after  death. 

E.  B.  Browning. 

CCXXI.     Remain,  ah  !  not  in  Youth  Alone 

T3  EMAIN,  ah  !  not  in  youth  alone, 

•*-^    Tho'  youth,  where  you  are,  long  will  stay  ; 

But  when  my  summer  days  are  gone, 

And  my  autumnal  haste  away. 
"Can  I  be  always  by  your  side?" 

No ;   but  the  hours  you  can,  you  must, 
Nor  rise  at  Death's  approaching  stride, 

Nor  go  when  dust  is  gone  to  dust. 

W.  S.  Landor. 
310 


XXII.     Twilight  and  Autumn  Violets 

farewells 


XXII 

T  T  E  did  not  dare  to  stay.  But,  throwing  himself 
-*•  into  the  carriage,  he  cast  one  look  towards 
the  window  of  the  Dark  Ladie,  and  a  moment 
afterwards  had  left  her  for  ever.  He  had  drunk 
the  last  drop  of  the  bitter  cup,  and  now  lay  the 
golden  goblet  gently  down,  knowing  that  he  should 
behold  it  no  more.  No  more  !  O,  how  majestically 
mournful  are  those  words  !  They  sound  like  the 
roar  of  the  wind  through  a  forest  of  pines  ! 

H.  W.  Longfellow,  "Hyperion." 


CCXXll.     Then,  Fare  Thee  Well 


,  fare  thee  well,  my  own  dear  love, 
-1-       This  world  has  now  for  us 
No  greater  grief,  no  pain  above 
The  pain  of  parting  thus, 

Dear  love  ! 
The  pain  of  parting  thus. 

Had  we  but  known,  since  first  we  met, 

Some  few  short  hours  of  bliss, 
We  might,  in  numb'ring  them,  forget 

The  deep,  deep  pain  of  this, 
Dear  love! 

The  deep,  deep  pain  of  this. 

But  no,  alas  !  we've  never  seen 

One  glimpse  of  pleasure's  ray, 
But  still  there  came  some  cloud  between, 

And  chased  it  all  away, 
Dear  love  ! 

And  chased  it  all  away. 

The  Garden  of  Love,  'l\'\ 


Yet,  ev'n  could  those  sad  moments  last, 

Far  dearer  to  my  heart, 
Were  hours  of  grief,  together  past, 

Than  years  of  mirth  apart, 
Dear  love  ! 

Than  years  of  mirth  apart. 

Farewell  !  our  hope  was  born  in  fears, 

And  nursed  'mid  vain  regrets  ; 
Like  winter  suns,  it  rose  in  tears, 
Like  them  in  tears  it  sets, 

Dear  love  ! 
Like  them  in  tears  it  sets. 

Thomas  Moore. 


CCXXIII.     Exit          j*      J      jfc      jfc      J 

'"T'HAT  time  of  year  thou  mayst  in  me  behold 
•*-    When  yellow  leaves,  or  none,  or  few,  do  hang 
Upon  those  boughs  which  shake  against  the  cold, 

Bare  ruin'd   choirs,  where   late   the  sweet   birds 

sang, 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  twilight  of  such  day 

As  after  sunset  fadeth  in  the  west, 
Which  by  and  by  black  night  doth  take  away, 

Death's  second  self,  that  seals  up  all  in  rest. 
In  me  thou  see'st  the  glowing  of  such  fire 

That  on  the  ashes  of  his  youth  doth  lie, 
As  the  death-bed  whereon  it  must  expire, 

Consumed  with  that  which  it  was  nourish'd  by. 


This    thou   perceiv'st,   which   makes    thy   love 

more  strong 
To  love  that  well  which  thou  must   leave   ere 

long. 

William  Shakespeare. 

CCXXIV.     The  Lost  Mistress    *      *      Jt 

A   LL'S  over,  then  :  does  truth  sound  bitter 
•'•*•     As  one  at  first  believes  ? 
Hark,  'tis  the  sparrows'  good-night  twitter 
About  your  cottage  eaves  ! 

And  the  leaf-buds  on  the  vine  are  woolly, 

I  noticed  that,  to-day  ; 
One  day  more  bursts  them  open  fully, 

— You  know  the  red  turns  grey. 

To-morrow  we  meet  the  same  then,  dearest  ? 

May  I  take  your  hand  in  mine  ? 
Mere    friends    are    we, — well,    friends   the   merest 

Keep  much  that  I  resign  : 

For  each  glance  of  that  eye  so  bright  and  black, 
Though  I  keep  with  heart's  endeavour, — 

Your  voice,  when  you  wish  the  snowdrops  back, 
Though  it  stays  in  my  soul  for  ever ! — 

Yet  I  will  but  say  what  mere  friends  say, 
Or  only  a  thought  stronger ; 
315 


I  will  hold  your  hand  but  as  long  as  all  may, 
Or  so  very  little  longer  ! 

Robert  Browning. 


CCXXV.     Highland  Mary  jt      jt      jt 

V7"E  banks  and  braes  and  streams  around 
-*-     The  castle  o'  Montgomery  ! 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  : 
There  Simmer  first  unfald  her  robes, 

And  there  the  langest  tarry ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  Fareweel 

Of  my  sweet  Highland  Mary ! 

How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay,  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom, 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasp'd  her  to  my  bosom  ! 
The  golden  Hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  Dearie ; 
For  dear  to  me  as  light  and  life, 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  monie  a  vow  and  lock'd  embrace 

Our  parting  was  fu'  tender ; 
And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again, 

We  tore  oursels  asunder. 
But,  O,  fell  Death's  untimely  frost, 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! 
316 


Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay 
That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

O,  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly  ! 
And  clos'd  for  ay,  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwalt  on  me  sae  kindly  ! 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  lo'ecl  me  dearly! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 

Robert  Burns. 

CCXXVI.     Love's  Secret  jt      j, 

NEVER  seek  to  tell  thy  love, 
Love  that  never  told  can  be ; 
For  the  gentle  wind  doth  move 
Silently,  invisibly. 

I  told  my  love,  I  told  my  love, 

I  told  her  all  my  heart  ; 
Trembling,  cold,  in  ghastly  fears, 

Ah  !  she  did  depart  ! 

Soon  after  she  was  gone  from  me, 

A  traveller  came  by, 
Silently,  invisibly  : 

He  took  her  with  a  sigh. 

William  Blake. 


CCXXVII.     Four  Years      Jt      jfc      jt      jt 

A  T  the  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was  down, 
**•     Said  I,  mournfully — My  year  is  at  its  prime, 
Yet   bare   lie   my   meadows,   shorn    before   their 

time, 
In  my  scorch'd  woodlands  the  leaves  are  turning 

brown. 
It  is  the  hot  midsummer,  and  the   hay  is  down. 

At  the  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was  down, 
Stood   she    by  the    streamlet,   young    and    very 

fair, 
With   the   first   white    bindweed   twisted    in   her 

hair — 
Hair   that   drooped   like    birch-boughs, — all   in   her 

simple  gown. 
For  it  was  midsummer, — and  the  hay  was  down. 

At  the  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was  down, 
Crept  she,  a  willing  bride,  close  into  my  breast  : 
Low-piled  the  thunder-clouds  had  drifted  to  the 

west — 
Red-eyed,   out  glared   the    sun,   like    knight    from 

leaguer'd  town, 

That  eve  in  high  midsummer,  when  the  hay  was 
down. 

It  is  midsummer — all  the  hay  is  down  ; 
Close  to  her  bosom  press  I  dying  eyes, 


Praying,    "God    shield    thee    till    we    meet    in 

Paradise  ! " 
Bless  her  in   Love's  name  who  was  my  brief  life's 

crown, — 

And   I  go  at  midsummer,  when  the  hay  is  down. 
Dinah  M.  Mulock. 


CCXXVIII.     The  Sailing  of  the  Sword 

A  CROSS  the  empty  garden-beds, 
**•     When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 
I  scarcely  saw  my  sisters'  heads 

Bowed  each  beside  a  tree. 
I  could  not  see  the  castle  leads, 

When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

Alicia  wore  a  scarlet  gown, 

When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

But  Ursula's  was  russet  brown  : 
For  the  mist  we  could  not  see 

The  scarlet  roofs  of  the  good  town, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

Green  holly  in  Alicia's  hand, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea; 

With  sere  oak-leaves  did  Ursula  stand  ; 
O  !  yet  alas  for  me  ! 

I  did  but  bear  a  peel'd  white  wand, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 
3X9 


O,  russet  brown  and  scarlet  bright, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

My  sisters  wore  ;  I  wore  but  white  : 
Red,  brown,  and  white,  are  three  ; 

Three  damozels  ;  each  had  a  knight, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

Sir  Robert  shouted  loud,  and  said, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

"  Alicia,  while  I   see  thy  head, 
What  shall  I  bring  for  thee?" 

"  O,  my  sweet  lord,  a  ruby  red  : " 
The  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

Sir  Miles  said,  while  the  sails  hung  down, 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

"  Oh,  Ursula  !  while  I  see  the  town, 
What  shall  I  bring  for  thee?" 

"  Dear  knight,  bring  back  a  falcon  brown  :" 
The  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

But  my  Roland,  no  word  he  said 
When  the  Sword  went  out  to  sea, 

But  only  turn'd  away  his  head, — 
A  quick  shriek  came  from  me  : 

"  Come  back,  dear  lord,  to  your  white  maid  !  "- 
The  Sword  went  out  to  sea. 

The  hot  sun  bit  the  garden-beds, 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea; 

Beneath  an  apple-tree  our  heads 
Stretched  out  toward  the  sea ; 
320 


Grey  gleam'd  the  thirsty  castle  leads, 
When  ihe  Sword  came  back  from  sea. 

Lord  Robert  brought  a  ruby  red, 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea  ; 

He  kissed  Alicia  on  the  head  : 
"  I  am  come  back  to  thee  ; 

'Tis  time,  sweet  love,  that  we  were  wed, 
Now  the  Sword  is  back  from  sea  !" 

Sir  Miles,  he  bore  a  falcon  brown, 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea ; 

His  arms  went  round  tall  Ursula's  gown 
"  What  joy,  O  love,  but  thee  ? 

Let  us  be  wed  in  the  good  town, 
Now  the  Sword  is  back  from  sea  ! " 

My  heart  grew  sick,  no  more  afraid, 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea  ; 

Upon  the  deck  a  tall  white  maid 
Sat  on  Lord  Roland's  knee; 

His  chin  was  press'd   upon  her  head, 
When  the  Sword  came  back  from  sea  ! 

William  Morris. 

CCXXIX.     A  Valediction  *      J 


G 


OD  be  with  thee,  my  beloved,— God  be  with 

thee! 

Else  alone  thou  goest  forth. 
321 


Thy  face  unto  the  north, — 

Moor  and  pleasance,  all  around  thee  and  beneath 
thee, 

Looking  equal  in  the  snow  ! 

While  I  who  try  to  reach  thee, 

Vainly  follow,  vainly  follow, 

With  the  farewell  and  the  hollo, 

And  cannot  reach  thee  so. 

Alas  !   I  can  but  teach  thee — 
God  be  with  thee,  my  beloved, — God  be  with  thee! 

*  *  *  *  * 

Can  I  love  thee,  my  beloved  ? — can  I  love  thee  ? 

And  is  this  like  love,  to  stand 

With  no  help  in  my  hand, 

When  strong  as   death   I   fain  would  watch  above 
thee? 

My  love-kiss  can  deny 

No  tear  that  falls  beneath  it : 

Mine  oath  of  love  can  swear  thee 

From  no  ill  that  comes  near  thee, — 

And  thou  diest  while  thou  breathe  it, 

And  / — I  can  but  die  ! 

May  God   love   thee,  my  beloved, — may  God   love 
thee  ! 

E.  B.  Browning. 

CCXXX.     We  Two  Together     jt      jt      * 

SHINE  !  shine!  shine! 
Pour  down  your  warmth,  great  sun  ! 
While  we  bask,  we  two  together. 
322 


Two  together  ! 

Winds  blow  south  or  winds  blow  north, 
Day  come  white,  or  day  come  black, 
Home,  or  rivers  and  mountains  from  home, 
Singing  all  time,  minding  no  time, 
While  we  two  keep  together.     .     .     . 

.  .  .  Soothe  !  soothe  !  soothe  ! 

Close  on  its  wave  soothes  the  wave  behind, 

And  again  another  behind  embracing  and  lapping, 

every  one  close, 
But  my  love  soothes  not  me,  not  me. 

Low  hangs  the  moon,  it  is  late, 
It   is   lagging — O   I   think   it   is    heavy    with    love, 
with  love. 

O  madly  the  sea  pushes  upon  the  land, 
With  love,  with  love. 

O    night !    do    I    not   see    my  love   fluttering    out 

among  the  breakers  ? 
What  is  that  little  black  thing  I  see  there  in  the 

white  ? 

Loud  !  loud  !  loud  ! 

Loud  I  call  to  you,  my  love  ! 

High  and  clear  I  shoot  my  voice  over  the  waves, 
Surely  you  must  know  who  is  here^  is  here, 
You  must  know  I  am,  my  love. 
323 


Low-hanging  moon  ! 

What  is  that  dusky  spot  in  your  brown  yellow  ! 

O  it  is  the  shape,  the  shape  of  my  mate  ! 

O  moon,  do  not  keep  her  from  me  any  longer. 

Land  !  land  !  land  ! 

Whichever  way  I  turn,  O  I  think   you  could  give 

me  my  mate  back  again  if  you  only  would, 
For  I  am  almost  sure  I  see  her   dimly  whichever 

way  I  look. 

O  rising  stars  ! 

Perhaps  the  one   I   want   so   much   will  rise,   will 
rise  with  some  of  you. 

O  throat  !  O  trembling  throat ! 
Sound  clearer  through  the  atmosphere  ! 
Pierce  the  woods,  the  earth, 

Somewhere    listening    to    catch  you    must  be   the 
one  I  want. 

Shake  out  carols  ! 

Solitary  here,  the  night's  carols  ! 

Carols  of  lonesome  love  !  death's  carols  ! 

Carols  under  that  lagging,  yellow,  waning  moon  ! 

O  under  that  moon  where  she  droops  almost  down 

into  the  sea  t 

O  reckless  despairing  carols. 
324 


But  soft  !  sink  low  ! 
Soft  !  let  me  just  murmur, 

And  do  you  wait  a  moment  you  husky-nois'd  sea, 
For    somewhere   I   believe    I    heard  my  mate   re- 
sponding to  me, 

So  faint,  I  must  be  still,  be  still  to  listen, 
But   not  altogether   still,   for   then   she   might    not 
come  immediately  to  me. 

Hither  my  love  ! 

Here  I  am  !  here  ! 

With   this  just-sustained   note   I   announce   myself 

to  you, 
This  gentle  call  is  for  you,  my  love,  for  you. 

Do  not  be  decoy'd  elsewhere, 

That    is  the    whistle   of   the    wind,    it   is   not    my 

voice, 

That  is  the  fluttering,  the  fluttering  of  the  spray, 
Those  are  the  shadows  of  leaves. 

O  darkness  !  O  in  vain  ! 

O  I  am  very  sick  and  sorrowful. 

O  brown  halo  in  the  sky  near  the  moon,  drooping 

upon  the  sea  ! 

O  troubled  reflection  in  the  sea  ! 
O  throat  !  O  throbbing  heart  ! 
And  I  singing  uselessly,  uselessly  all  the  night. 
325 


O  past  !  O  happy  life  !  O  songs  of  joy  ! 
In  the  air,  in  the  woods,  over  fields, 
Loved  !  loved  !  loved  !  loved  !  loved  ! 
But  my  mate  no  more,  no  more  with  me  ! 
We  two  together  no  more. 

Walt  Whitman. 

CCXXXI.     Farewell  to  Nancy    jt      Jt 

AE  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 
Ae  fareweel,  and  then  forever  ! 
Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee. 
Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee, 
Who  shall  say  that  Fortune  grieves  him, 
While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 
Me,  nae  cheerful  twinkle  4ights  me ; 
Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 
Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy. 
But  to  see  her,  was  to  love  her  ; 
Love  but  her,  and  love  for  ever. 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  kindly, 
Had  we  never  lov'd  sae  blindly, 
Never  met — or  never  parted, 
We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted  ! 

Fare-thee-weel,  thou  first  and  fairest  ! 
Fare-thee-weel,  thou  best  and  dearest  ! 
Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure, 
326 


Peace,  Enjoyment,  Love,  and  Pleasure ! 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever  : 

Ae  fareweel,  alas !  for  ever  ! 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 

Robert  Burns. 


CCXXXII.      Farewell!    If    Ever    Fondest 
Prayer    j*      J      Jt,      j*       J      jfc      & 


!  if  ever  fondest  prayer 
For  other's  weal  availed  on  high, 
Mine  will  not  all  be  lost  in  air, 

But  waft  thy  name  beyond  the  sky. 
'Twere  vain  to  speak  —  to  weep  —  to  sigh  : 
Oh  !  more  than  tears  of  blood  can  tell, 
When  wrung  from  Guilt's  expiring  eye, 
Are  in  that  word  —  Farewell  !  —  Farewell  ! 

These  lips  are  mute,  these  eyes  are  dry  ; 

But  in  my  breast  and  in  my  brain, 
Awake  the  pangs  that  pass  not  by, 

The  thought  that  ne'er  shall  sleep  again. 
My  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain, 

Though  Grief  and  Passion  there  rebel  : 
I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain  — 

I  only  feel  —  Farewell  !  —  Farewell  ! 

Lord  Byron. 
32? 


XXIII.     Evergreens 

Love  Strong  as  Death 


329 


/~^VN  that  day  which  fulfilled  the  year  since  my 
^— '  lady  had  been  made  of  the  citizens  of  eternal 
life,  remembering  me  of  her  as  I  sat  alone,  I  betook 
myself  to  draw  the  resemblance  of  an  angel  upon 
certain  tablets.  And  while  I  did  thus,  chancing  to 
turn  my  head,  I  perceived  that  some  were  standing 
beside  me  to  whom  I  should  have  given  courteous 
welcome.  .  .  .  Perceiving  whom,  I  arose  for  saluta- 
tion, and  said,  "Another  was  with  me." 

Dante  Alighieri,  trans.  D.  G.  Rossetli, 
"  The  New.'  Life." 


CCXXXIII.     The  Blessed  Damozel 

*T^HE  blessed  damozel  leaned  out 
•*-      From  the  gold  bar  of  Heaven ; 
Her  eyes  were  deeper  than  the  depth 

Of  waters  stilled  at  even  ; 
She  had  three  lilies  in  her  hand, 

And  the  stars  in  her  hair  were  seven. 

Her  robe,  ungirt  from  clasp  to  hem, 
No  wrought  flowers  did  adorn, 

But  a  white  rose  of  Mary's  gift, 
For  service  meetly  worn  ; 

Her  hair  that  lay  along  her  back 
Was  yellow  like  ripe  corn. 

Her  seemed  she  scarce  had  been  a  day 

One  of  God's  choristers ; 
The  wonder  was  not  yet  quite  gone 

From  that  still  look  of  hers  ; 
Albeit  to  them  she  left,  her  day 

Had  counted  as  ten  years. 


(To  one,  it  is  ten  years  of  years. 

.  .  .  Yet  now,  and  in  this  place, 
Surely  she  leaned  o'er  me — her  hair 

Fell  all  about  my  face.  .  .  . 
Nothing  :  the  autumn-fall  of  leaves. 

The  whole  year  sets  apace.) 


It  was  the  rampart  of  God's  house 

That  she  was  standing  on; 
By  God  built  over  the  sheer  depth 

The  which  is  Space  begun  ; 
So  high,  that  looking  downward  thence 

She  scarce  could  see  the  sun. 


It  lies  in  Heaven,  across  the  flood 

Of  ether,  as  a  bridge. 
Beneath,  the  tides  of  day  and  night 

With  flame  and  darkness  ridge 
The  void,  as  low  as  where  this  earth 

Spins  like  a  fretful  midge. 


Around  her,  lovers,  newly  met 
'Mid  deathless  love's  acclaims, 

Spoke  evermore  among  themselves 
Their  heart-remembered  names  ; 

And  the  souls  mounting  up  to  God 
Went  by  her  like  thin  flames. 
332 


And  still  she  bowed  herself  and  stooped 

Out  of  the  circling  charm  ; 
Until  her  bosom  must  have  made 

The  bar  she  leaned  on  warm, 
And  the  lilies  lay  as  if  asleep 

Along  her  bended  arm. 

From  the  fixed  place  of  Heaven  she  saw 

Time  like  a  pulse  shake  fierce 
Through  all  the  worlds.     Her  gaze  still  strove 

Within  the  gulf  to  pierce 
Its  path  ;  and  now  she  spoke  as  when 

The  stars  sang  in  their  spheres. 

The  sun  was  gone  now  ;  the  curled  moon 

Was  like  a  little  feather 
Fluttering  far  down  the  gulf ;  and  now 

She  spoke  through  the  still  weather. 
Her  voice  was  like  the  voice  the  stars 

Had  when  they  sang  together. 

(Ah  sweet  !    Even  now,  in  that  bird's  song, 

Strove  not  her  accents  there, 
Fain  to  be  hearkened  ?    When  those  bells 

Possessed  the  mid-day  air, 
Strove  not  her  steps  to  reach  my  side 

Down  all  the  echoing  stair  ?) 

"  I  wish  that  he  were  come  to  me, 
For  he  will  come,"  she  said. 
333 


"Have  I  not  prayed  in  Heaven? — on  earth, 
Lord,  Lord,  has  he  not  pray'd  ? 

Are  not  two  prayers  a  perfect  strength  ? 
And  shall  I  feel  afraid  ? 

"When  round  his  head  the  aureole  clings, 

And  he  is  clothed  in  white, 
I'll  take  his  hand  and  go  with  him 

To  the  deep  wells  of  light ; 
As  unto  a  stream  we  will  step  down, 

And  bathe  there  in  God's  sight." 

"  We  two  will  stand  beside  that  shrine, 

Occult,  withheld,  untrod, 
Whose  lamps  are  stirred  continually 

With  prayer  sent  up  to  God ; 
And  see  our  old  prayers  granted,  melt 

Each  like  a  little  cloud. 

"We  two  will  lie  i'  the  shadow  of 

That  living  mystic  tree 
Within  whose  secret  growth  the  Dove 

Is  sometimes  felt  to  be, 
While  every  leaf  that  His  plumes  touch 

Saith  His  Name  audibly. 

"  And  I  myself  will  teach  to  him, 

I  myself,  lying  so, 
The  songs  I  sing  here  ;  which  his  voice 

Shall  pause  in,  hushed  and  slow, 
334 


And  find  some  knowledge  at  each  pause, 
Or  some  new  thing  to  know." 

(Alas  !  we  two,  we  two,  thou  say'st ! 

Yea,  one  wast  thou  with  me 
That  once  of  old.     But  shall  God  lift 

To  endless  unity 
The  soul  whose  likeness  with  thy  soul 

Was  but  its  love  for  thee  ?) 

"  We  two,"  she  said,  "  will  seek  the  groves 

Where  the  lady  Mary  is, 
With  her  five  handmaidens,  whose  names 

Are  five  sweet  symphonies, 
Cecily,  Gertrude,  Magdalen, 

Margaret  and  Rosalys. 

"  Circlewise  sit  they,  with  bound  locks 

And  foreheads  garlanded ; 
Into  the  fine  cloth  white  like  flame 

Weaving  the  golden  thread, 
To  fashion  the  birth-robes  for  them 

Who  are  just  born,  being  dead. 

"  He  shall  fear,  haply,  and  be  dumb 

Then  will  lay  my  cheek 
To  his,  and  tell  about  our  love, 

Not  once  abashed  and  weak  : 
And  the  dear  Mother  will  approve 

My  pride,  and  let  me  speak. 
335 


"  Herself  shall  bring  us,  hand  in  hand, 
To  Him  round  whom  all  souls 

Kneel,  the  clear-ranged  unnumbered  heads 
Bowed  with  their  aureoles  : 

And  angels  meeting  us  shall  sing 
To  their  citherns  and  citoles. 


"There  will  I  ask  of  Christ  the  Lord 

Thus  much  for  him  and  me  : — 
Only  to  live  as  once  on  earth 

With  Love, — only  to  be, 
As  then  awhile,  for  ever  now 

Together,  I  and  He.' 

She  gazed,  and  listened,  and  then  said, 
Less  sad  of  speech  than  mild, — 

"  All  this  is  when  he  comes."     She  ceased, 
The  light  thrilled  towards  her,  fill'd 

With  angels  in  strong  level  flight. 
Her  eyes  prayed  and  she  smil'd. 

(I  saw  her  smile.)     But  soon  their  path 

Was  vague  in  distant  spheres : 
And  then  she  cast  her  arms  along 

The  golden  barriers, 
And  laid  her  face  between  her  hands, 
And  wept.    (I  heard  her  tears.) 

D.  G.  Rossetti. 
336 


CCXXXIV.        At  the  Mid   Hour  of  Night 

A  T    the    mid    hour    of    night,    when    stars     are 
**•     weeping,  I  fly 
To  the  lone  vale  we  loved,  when  life  shone  warm 

in  thine  eye  ; 
And   I   think   oft,   if   spirits  can   steal  from    the 

regions  of  air, 
To  revisit  past  scenes  of  delight,  thou  wilt  come 

to  me  there, 

And  tell  me  our  love  is  remember'd,  even  in  the 
sky  ! 

Then     I     sing     the    wild    song    'twas    once    such 

pleasure  to  hear, 
When  our  voices,  commingling,  breathed,  like  one 

on   the   ear ; 
And,  as  Echo  far  off  through  the   vale   my  sad 

orison  rolls, 
I    think,     O    my     love  !    'tis     thy     voice,    from 

the   Kingdom  of  Souls, 

Faintly  answering  still  the   notes  that  once   were 
so  dear. 

Thomas  Moore. 

CCXXXV.     Evelyn   Hope  Jt      Jt      Jk 

F>  EAUTIFUL  Evelyn  Hope  is  dead  ! 
-*-^     Sit  and  watch  by  her  side  an  hour. 
That  is  her  bookshelf,  this  her  bed ; 

She   plucked   that  piece  of  geranium-flower, 


The  Garden  of  Love, 


337 


Beginning  to  die  too,  in  the  glass ; 

Little  has  yet  been  changed,  I  think  : 
The  shutters  are  shut,  no  light  may  pass 

Save  two  long  rays  thro'  the  hinge's  chink. 

Sixteen  years  old  when  she  died  ! 

Perhaps  she  had  scarcely  heard  my  name  ; 
It  was  not  her  time  to  love ;   beside, 

Her  life  had  many  a  hope  and  aim, 
Duties  enough  and  little  cares, 

And  now  was  quiet,  now  astir, 
Till  God's  hand  beckoned  unawares, — 

And  the  sweet  white  brow  is  all  of  her. 


Is  it  too  late,  then,  Evelyn  Hope  ? 

What,  your  soul  was  pure  and  true, 
The  good  stars  met  in  your  horoscope, 

Made  you  of  spirit,  fire  and  dew — 
And,  just  because  I  was  thrice  as  old, 

And   our   paths  in  the   world  diverged  so  wide, 
Each  was  nought  to  each,  must  I  be  told  ? 

We  were  fellow  mortals,  nought  beside  ? 

No,  indeed  !  for   God  above 

Is  great  to  grant,  as  mighty  to  make, 

And  creates  the  love  to  reward  the  love  : 
I  claim  you   still  for  my  own   love's  sake  ! 

Delayed  it  may  be  for  more  lives  yet, 
Through  worlds  I  shall  traverse,  not  a  few  : 
338 


Much  is  to  learn,  much  to  forget 

Ere  the  time  be  come  for  taking  you. 

But  the  time  will  come, — at  last  it  will, 

When,  Evelyn   Hope,  what  meant  (I  shall  say) 
In  the  lower  earth,  in  the  years  long  still, 

That  body  and  soul  so  pure  and  gay  ? 
Why  your  hair  was  amber,  I   shall  divine, 

And  your  mouth  of  your  own  geranium's  red — 
And  what  would  you  do  with  me,  in   fine, 

In  the  new  life  come  in  the  old  one's  stead. 


I  have  lived  (I  shall  say)  so  much  since  then, 

Given  up  myself  so  many  times, 
Gained  me  the  gains  of  various  men, 

Ransacked  the  ages,  spoiled  the  climes; 
Yet  one  thing,  one,  in  my  soul's  full  scope, 

Either  I  missed  or  itself  missed  me  : 
And  I  want  and  find  you,  Evelyn  Hope  ! 

What  is  the  issue  ?  let  us  see ! 

I  loved  you,  Evelyn,  all  the  while. 

My  heart  seemed  full  as  it  could  hold  ! 
There  was  place  and  to  spare  for  the  frank  young 

smile, 
And  the  red  young  mouth,  and  the  hair's  young 

gold. 

So,  hush, — I    will  give  you   this  leaf  to  keep  : 
See,  I  shut  it  inside  the  sweet  cold  hand  ! 
339 


There,  that  is  our  secret  :   go  to  sleep  ! 

You  will  wake,  and  remember,  and  understand. 
Robert  Browning. 

CCXXXVI.     A  Spirit  Present  jfc      jfc 

T  F,  coming  from  that  unknown  sphere 

-*-     Where  I   believe  thou  art — 

The  world  unseen  which  girds  our  world 

So  close,  yet  so  apart, — 
Thy  soul's  soft  call  unto  my  soul 

Electrical  could  reach, 
And  mortal  and  immortal  blend 
In  one  familiar  speech, — 

What  wouldst  thou  say  to  me  ?   would  st  ask 

What  since  did  me  befall  ? 
Or  close  this  chasm  of  cruel  years 

Between  us — knowing  all  ? 
Wrouldst  love  me — thy  pure  eyes  seeing  that 

God  only  saw  beside  ? 
Oh,  love  me  !     'Twas  so  hard  to  live, 

So  easy  to  have  died. 

If  while  this  dizzy  whirl  of  life 

A  moment  pausing  stay'd, 
I  face  to  face  with  thee  could  stand, 

I  would  not  be  afraid  : 
Not  though  from  heaven  to  heaven  thy  feet 

In  glad  ascent  have  trod, 
34^ 


While  mine  took  through  earth's  miry  ways 
Their  solitary  road. 

We  could  not  lose  each  other.     World 

On  world  piled  ever  higher 
Would  part  like  bank'd  clouds,  lightning-cleft, 

By  our  two  souls'  desire. 
Life  ne'er  divided  us  ;  death  tried, 

But  could  not;   love's  voice  fine 
Call'd  luring  through  the  dark  —  then  ceased, 

And  I  am  wholly  thine. 

Dinah  M.  Mulock. 

CCXXXVII.     Remembrance       jt      j* 


in  the  earth  —  and   the    deep   snow  piled 
^-'         above  thee, 

Far,  far  removed,  cold  in  the  dreary  grave  ! 
Have  I  forgot,  my  only  Love,  to  love  thee, 

Severed  at  last  by  Time's  all-severing  wave  ? 

Now,  when  alone,  do  my  thoughts  no  longer  hover 
Over  the  mountain,  on  that  northern  shore, 

Resting   their  wings  where   heath   and   fern-leaves 

cover 
Thy  noble  heart  for  ever,  ever  more  ? 

Cold  in  the  earth  —  and  fifteen  wild  Decembers, 
From  those  brown  hills,  have  melted  into  spring  : 

Faithful  indeed  the  spirit  that  remembers 
After  such  years  of  change  and  suffering  ! 


Sweet  Love  of  youth,  forgive,  if  I  forget  thee, 
While  the  world's  tide  is  bearing  me  along  : 

Other  desires  and  other  hopes  beset  me, 

Hopes  which  obscure,  but  cannot  do  thee  wrong  ! 

No  later  light  has  lightened  up  my  heaven, 
No  second  morn  has  ever  shone  for  me  ; 

All  my  life's  bliss  from  thy  dear  life  was  given, 
All  my  life's  bliss  is  in  the  grave  with  thee. 

But,    when      the     days    of    golden     dreams     had 

perished, 

And  even  Despair  was  powerless  to  destroy ; 
Then     did     I     learn     how    existence    could     be 

cherished, 
Strengthened,  and  fed  without  the  aid  of  joy. 

Then  did  I  check  the  tears  of  useless  passion — 
Weaned    my    young    soul   from    yearning    after 
thine ; 

Sternly  denied  its  burning  wish  to  hasten 
Down  to  that  tomb  already  more  than  mine. 

And,  even  yet,  I  dare  not  let  it  languish, 

Dare  not  indulge  in  memory's  rapturous  pain  ; 
Once  drinking  deep  of  that  divinest  anguish, 
How  could  I  seek  the  empty  world  again? 

Emily  Bronte. 
342 


CXXXVIII.     The  Cross    Roads      Jt 


sits  a  woman  in  a  lonely  place, 
*~      Where   All-Souls'   twilight    ever    bends    and 

broods  : 
With  hungry  hope  and  fear  upon  her  face, 

She  gazes  down  those  dreamy  solitudes, 
There  at  the  cross-roads,  peering  to  and  fro, 

Straining  her  glance  athwart  the  shadows  grey. 
Lest  any  little  traveller  she  might  know 
Haply  come  by  that  way. 

For  long,  so  long,  she  has  waited  :   now  and  then 

A  tiny  figure  looms  along  the  road, 
Shy,  scarce-awakened  from  the  world  of  men, 

Seeking  uncertainly  its  new  abode, 
And  eagerly  she  stoops,  she  scans  its  eyes, 

Asking  some  look,  some  tender  answering  sign, 
And  still  she  lets  it  go  again,  and  sighs, 

"Not  mine  —  O  God  —  not  mine!" 

But  some  day,  surely,  in  a  golden  hour, 

The  sweet  familiar  shape  shall  be  descried, 
Delaying  here  and  there  for  berry  or  flower, 

But  drawing  ever  nearer  to  her  side. 
No  need  of  greeting  between  child  and  mother, 

When  heart  on  heart  is  folded  close  and  fast 
In  that  one  clasp,  each  blended  in  the  other, 

That  pays  for  all  the  past  ! 

May  Byron. 
343 


XXIV.      Lavender 

Sweet  Memories 


345 


XXIV 

XT  O  man  ever  forgot  the  visitation  of  that  power 
•*•  ^  to  his  heart  and  brain,  which  created  all 
things  new  .  .  .  when  a  single  tone  of  one  voice 
could  make  the  heart  bound,  and  the  most  trivial 
circumstance  associated  with  one  form  is  put  in  the 
amber  of  memory.  .  .  .  For  the  figures,  the  motions, 
the  words  of  the  beloved  object  are  not  like  other 
images,  written  in  water,  but,  as  Plutarch  said, 
"  enamelled  in  fire." 

R.  W.  Emerson,  "  Love." 


CCXXXIX.     The   Memory  of  Love          jfc 

"D  EM  EMBER  then,  O  Pilgrim  !  and  beware,— 
••-^     Thou,  with  that  Memory  for  a  master-key, 
Wilt  open  Heaven,  and  be  no  alien  there, — 
For,    as    thou     honourest     Love,   so    will     Love 
honour  thee. 

Lord  Houghton. 

CCXL.     You   Remain          jt      jk      j,      jt 

A  S  a  perfume  doth  remain 
*^     In  the  fold  where  it  hath  lain, 

So  the  thought  of  you  remaining 
Deeply  folded  in  my  brain, 

Will  not  leave  me  :   all  things  leave  me : 
You  remain. 

Other  thoughts  may  come  and  go, 
Other  moments  I  may  know, 

That  shall  waft  me,  in  their  going, 
As  a  breath  blown  to  and  fro, 

Fragrant  memories  :   fragrant  memories 
Come  and  go. 

347 


Only  thoughts  of  you  remain 

In  my  heart  where  they  have  lain, 

Perfumed  thoughts  of  you  remaining 
A  hid  sweetness  in  my  brain. 

Others  leave  me :   all  things  leave  me  : 
You  remain. 

Author  Unknown. 


CCXLI.     Sighs  and  Memories 


*T^HAT  lady  of  all  gentle  memories 
*      Had  lighted  on  my  soul  ;  —  whose  new  abode 

Lies  now,  as  it  was  well  ordained  of  God, 
Among  the  poor  in  heart,  where  Mary  is. 
Love,  knowing  that  dear  image  to  be  his, 
Woke  up  within  the  sick  heart  sorrow-bow'd, 
Unto  the  sighs  which  are  its  weary  load, 
Saying,  "  Go  forth."     And  they  went  forth,  I  wis  ; 
Forth   went    they  from    my  breast  that   throbbed 

and  ached  ; 
With  such  a  pang  as  oftentime  will  bathe 

Mine  eyes  with  tears  when  I  am  left  alone. 
And  still  those  sighs  which  drew  the   heaviest 

breath 

Came  whispering  thus  :  "  O  noble  intellect  ! 
It  is  a  year  to-day  that  thou  art  gone." 

Dante  A  lighten  (trans.  D.  G.  Rossctti). 
348 


CCXLII.     Parted  and  Met  j*      Jt      Jt 

T  T  E,  who  for  Love  has  undergone 
**•    The  worst  that  can  befall, 
Is  happier  thousand-fold  than  one 

Who  never  loved  at  all  ; 
A  grace  within  his  soul  has  reigned, 

Which  nothing  else  can  bring — 
Thank  God  for  all  that  I  have  gained, 

By  that  high  suffering  ! 

Lord  Houghton. 


CCXLIII.     Love's  Young  Dream       £> 

OH  !  the  days  are  gone,  when  Beauty  bright 
My  heart's  chain  wove  ; 

When  my  dream  of  life  from  morn  till  night 
Was  love,  still  love. 
New  hope  may  bloom, 
And  days  may  come, 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam, 
But  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 

As  love's  young  dream  : 
No,  there's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream. 

Though  the  bard  to  purer  fame  may  soar, 

When  wild  youth's  past  ; 

Though  he  win  the  wise,  who  frown'd  before, 
349 


To  smile  at  last ; 

He'll  never  meet 

A  joy  so  sweet, 

In  all  his  noon  of  fame, 

As  when  first  he  sung  to  woman's  ear 

His  soul-felt  flame, 

And,  at  every  close,  she  blush'd  to  hear 
The  one  loved  name. 

No — that  hallow'd  form  is  ne'er  forgot 

Which  first  love  traced  ; 
Still  it  lingering  haunts  the  greenest  spot 
On  memory's  waste. 
'Twas  odour  fled 
As   soon  as  shed  ; 
'Twas  morning's  winged  dream  ; 
'Twas  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream  : 

Oh!    'twas  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 
On  life's  dull  stream. 

Thomas  Moore. 

CCXLIV.     My  Kate    j,     jfc      &      &      jfc 

SHE  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I  know, 
And    yet    all    your    best,    made    of    sunshine 

and  snow, 
Drop  to  shade,  melt  to  nought  in  the  long-trodden 

ways, 
While  she's  still  remembered   on   warm  and   cold 

days, 

—My  Kate. 

350 


Her  air  had  a  meaning,  her  movements,  a  grace, 
You  turned  from  the  fairest  to  gaze  on  her  face  ; 
And  when  you  had  once  seen  her  forehead  and 

mouth, 

You  saw  as  distinctly  her  soul  and  her  truth. 

—My  Kate. 

Such  a  blue  inner  light  from  her  eyelids  outbroke, 
You  looked  at  her  silence  and  fancied  she  spoke ; 
When  she  did,  so  peculiar  yet  soft  was  the  tone, 
Though  the  loudest  spoke  also,  you  heard  her 
alone, 

—My  Kate. 

I  doubt  if  she  said  to  you  much  that  could  act 
As  a  thought  or  suggestion  ;  she  did  not  attract 
In  the  sense  of  the  brilliant  or  wise  ;  I  infer 
'Twas   her  thinking  of  others   made  you   think  of 
her, 

—My  Kate. 

She  never  found  fault  with  you,  never  implied 
You  wrong  by  her  right ;  and  yet  men  at  her  side 
Grew  nobler,  girls  purer,  as  thro'  the  whole  town 
The    children    were    gladder    that    pulled    at    her 

gown, 

—My  Kate. 

None  knelt  at  her  feet  confessed  lovers  in  thrall ; 
They  knelt  more  to  God  than  they  used— that  was 
all; 

351 


If  you  praised  her  as  charming,  some  asked  what 

you  meant, 
But   the   charm   of    her  presence   was  felt   where 

she  went. 

—My  Kate. 

The  weak  and  the  gentle,  the  ribald  and  rude, 
She   took  as  she  found    them,   and    did  them   all 

good  ; 

It  always  was  so  with  her  ;  see  what  you  have  ! 
She   has  made   the    grass   greener   even   here  . 

with  her  grave, 

—My  Kate. 

My  dear  one  !  when  thou  wast  alive  with  the  rest, 
I  held  thee  the  sweetest  and  loved  thee  the  best ; 
And  now  thou  art  dead,  shall  I  not  take  thy  part, 
As  thy  smiles  used  to  do  for  thyself,  my  sweet- 
heart, 

—My  Kate  ! 
E.  B.  Browning. 

CCXLV.     One  Day     Jt      jt      jk      Jk      jt 

T   WILL  tell  you  when  they  met  : 
In  the  limpid  days  of  Spring  ; 
Elder  boughs  were  budding  yet, 
Oaken  boughs  looked  wintry  still, 
But  primrose  and  veined  violet 
In  the  mossful  turf  were  set, 
352 


While  meeting  birds  made  haste  to  sing 
And  build  with  right  good  will. 

I   will  tell  you  when  they  parted  : 

When  plenteous  Autumn  sheaves  were  brown 

Then  they  parted  heavy-hearted  ; 

The  full  rejoicing  sun  looked  down 

As  grand  as  in  the  days  before ; 

Only  they  had  lost  a  crown ; 

Only  to  them  those  days  of  yore 

Could  come  back  nevermore. 

When  shall  they  meet  ?  I  cannot  tell, 
Indeed,  when  they  shall  meet  again, 
Except  some  day  in  Paradise : 
For  this  they  wait,  one  waits  in  pain. 
Beyond  the  sea  of  death  Love  lies 
For  ever,  yesterday,  to-day ; 
Angels  shall  ask  them,  "Is  it  well?" 
And  they  shall  answer  "  Yea." 

Christina  R  asset  ti. 

CCXLVI.     Rose  Aylmer     Jt      jt      jt 

AH  !  what  avails  the  sceptred  race  ! 
Ah  !  what  the  form  divine  ! 
What  every  virtue,  every  grace  ! 
Rose  Aylmer,  all  were  thine. 

Rose  Aylmer,  whom  these  wakeful  eyes 
May  weep,  but  never  see, 
353 


A  night  of  memories  and  of  sighs 
I  consecrate  to  thee. 

Walter  Saragc  Landor. 

CCXLVII.     She  Came  and  Went     jt      Jt 

A  S  a  twig  trembles,  which  a  bird 
**;     Lights  on  to  sing,  then  leaves  unbent, 
So  is  my  memory  thrilled  and  stirr'd  ; — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As  clasps  some  lake,  by  gusts  unriven, 
The  blue  dome's  measureless  content, 

So  my  soul  held  that  moment's  heaven  ; — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

As,  at  one  bound,  our  swift  spring  heaps 
The  orchards  full  of  bloom  and  scent, 

So  clove  her  May  my  wintry  sleeps  ; — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

An  angel  stood   and  met  my  gaze, 
Through  the  low  doorway  of  my  tent ; 

The  tent  is  struck,  the  vison  stays; — 
I  only  know  she  came  and  went. 

Oh,  when  the  room  grows  slowly  dim, 

And  life's  last  oil  is  nearly  spent, 

One  gush  of  light  these  eyes  will  brim, 

Only  to  think  she  came  and  went. 

J.  R.  Lowell. 
354 


CCXLVIII.     My  Letters     Jt      jt      Jt,      jk 

\ /I  Y  letters  !  all  dead  paper,  mute  and  white, 

And  yet  they  seem  alive  and  quivering 
Against     my    tremulous    hands    which     loose    the 

string 

And  let  them  drop  down  on  my  knee  to-night. 
This  said, — he  wished  to  have  me  in  his  sight 
Once,  as  a  friend  :  this  fixed  a  day  in  spring 
To  come  and  touch  my  hand — a  simple  thing, 
Yet  I  wept  for  it !  this  the  paper's  light — 
Said,  Dear,  I  love  thee ;  and  I  sank  and  quailed 
As  if  God's  future  thundered  on.  my  past. 
This  said,  /  am  thine — and  so  its  ink  has  paled 
With  lying  at  my  heart  that  beat  too  fast : 
And  this — O  Love,  thy  words  have  ill  availed, 
If,  what  this  said,  I  dared  repeat  at  last ! 

E.  B.  Browning. 


CCXLIX.     Golden  Guendolen    j»      J 

'  T^WIXT  the  sunlight  and  the  shade 
*-      Float  up  memories  of  my  maid  ; 
God,  remember  Guendolen  ! 

Gold  or  gems  she  did  not  wear, 
But  her  yellow  rippled  hair, 
Like  a  veil,  hid  Guendolen  ! 
355 


'Twixt  the  sunlight  and  the  shade, 
My  rough  hands  so  strangely  made, 
Folded  Golden  Guendolen  ; 

Hands  used  to  grip  the  sword-hilt  hard, 
Framed  her  face,  while  on  the  sward, 
Tears  fell  down  from  Guendolen. 

Guendolen  now  speaks  no  word, 
Hands  fold  round  about  the  sword, 
Now  no  more  of  Guendolen. 

Only  'twixt  the  light  and  shade 
Floating  memories  of  my  maid 
Make  me  pray  for  Guendolen. 

William  Morris. 


CCL.     Durisdeer  Jt      jt,      jt 


meet    nae    mair    at   sunset   when    the 
*  *       weary  day  is  dune, 
Nor  wander  hame  thegither  by  the  lee   licht  o' 

the  mune  ! 
I'll   hear  your   step    nae    longer   amang  the   dewy 

corn, 

For  we'll  meet  nae  mair,  my  bonniest,  either  at 
eve  or  morn. 

356 


The   yellow   broom    is    waving,    abune    the   sunny 

brae, 
And    the    rowan     berries    dancing,    where    the 

sparkling  waters  play. 
Tho'  a'  is  bright  and  bonnie,  it's  an  eerie  place  to 

me, 

For  we'll  meet  nae    mair,   my  dearest,  either  by 
burn  or  tree. 

Far  up  into  the  wild  hills,  there's   a  kirkyard  cold 

and  still, 
Where    the    frosts     lie    ilka    morning,    and   the 

mists  hang  low  and  chill, 
And   there   ye   sleep   in    silence,    while    I    wander 

here  my  lane, 

Till    we    meet  ance    mair    in    Heaven,    never  to 
part  again  ! 

Lady  John  Scoli. 


CCLI.     Once    Again  J> 

OTHAT  'twere  possible, 
After  long  grief  and  pain, 
To  find  the  arms  of  my  true  love 
Round  me  once  again. 

When  I  was  wont  to  meet  her 
In  the  silent  woody  places 
By  the  home  that  gave  me  birth, 
357 


We  stood  tranced  in  long  embraces 
Mixed  with  kisses  sweeter,  sweeter 
Than  anything  on  earth. 

A  shadow  flits  before  me, 

Not  thou,  but  like  to  thee  ; 

Ah,  Christ,  that  it  were  possible 

For  one  short  hour  to  see 

The  souls  we  loved,  that  they  might  tell  us 

What  and  where  they  be. 

Alfred,  Lord  Tennvson. 


CCLII.     The  Mother's  Visits      J>      jt      Jt 

T    ONG  years  ago  she  visited  my  chamber, 
*— '     Steps  soft  and  low,  a  taper  in  her  hand  ; 
Her  fond  kiss  she  laid  upon  my  eye-lids, 

Fair  as  an  angel  from  the  unknown  land  : 
Mother,  mother,  is  it  thou  I  see? 
Mother,  mother,  watching  over  me. 

And  yesternight  I  saw  her  cross  my  chamber, 
And  soundless   as    light,    a   palm-branch    in  her 
hand ; 

358 


Her  mild  eyes  she  bent  upon  my  anguish, 
Calm  as  an  angel  from  the  blessed  land  ; 
Mother,  mother,  is  it  thou  I   see  ? 
Mother,  mother,  art  thou  come  for  me? 

Dinah  M.  Unlock. 


CCLIII.     Memory        Jt      &      jt      jt,      Jt 

T    HAVE  a  room  whereinto  no  one  enters 
-*•     Save  I  myself  alone : 

There  sits  a  blessed  memory  on  a  throne, 
Where  my  life  centres  ; 

While  winter  comes  and  goes — oh,  tedious 
comer  : — 

And  while  its  nip-wind  blows  ; 

While  bloom  the  bloodless  lily  and  warm  rose 
Of  lavish  summer. 

If  any  should  force  entrance    he   might   see    there 

One  buried  yet  not  dead, 

Before  whose  face  I  no  more  bow  my  head 
Or  bend  my  knee  there  ; 

But  often  in  my  worn  life's  autumn  weather 
I  watch  there  with  clear  eyes, 
And  think  how  it  will  be  in  Paradise 

When  we're  together. 

Christina  Rossetti. 

359 


CCLIV.     The  Vista     &      *      *      &      # 

T   CAN  recall  so  well  how  she  would  look — 
•*•      How,  at  the  very  murmur  of  her  dress 
On  entering  the  door,  the  whole  room  took 
An  air  of  gentleness. 

That  was  so  long  ago  ;  and  yet  his  eyes 
Had  always,  afterwards,  the  look  that  waits 

And  yearns,  and  waits  again,  nor  can  disguise 
Something  it  contemplates. 

May  we  imagine  it  ?  the  sob,  the  tears, 
The    long    sweet    shuddering    breath ;    then,   on 

her  breast, 

The  great,  full,  flooding  sense  of  endless  years 
Of  heaven,  and  her,  and  rest. 

Author  Unknown. 

CCLV.     Echoes  and  Memories  j*      J.      Jt 

\/f  USIC,  when  soft  voices  die, 

*•*•*     Vibrates  in  the  memory — 
Odours,  when  sweet  violets  sicken, 
Live  within  the  sense  they  quicken. 

Rose-leaves,  when  the  rose  is  dead, 
Are  heaped  for  the  beloved's  bed  ; 
And  so  thy  thoughts,  when  thou  art  gone, 
Love  itself  shall  slumber  on. 

P.  B.  Shelley. 


BROTHERS,    LIMITED,    PRINTERS,    WOKING   AND   LONDON'. 


